


You are my biggest regret

by LostBoy626



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Betrayal, Elite's have to marry by a certain age, Eventual Arranged Marriages, Eventual Plot, Explicit Language, M/M, Minor Character Aggression, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter was 18 when the whole Thanos thing happened, Plot Diversions, Power Imbalance, Slow Burn, Tags will be updated as needed with every chapter that is posted, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony didn't die, Tony is only in his early forties, Unintentional-Harm, government control, minor character injury, peter is 20, updates every Friday
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:48:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25910833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostBoy626/pseuds/LostBoy626
Summary: Arranged marriages were a thing of the past- for all the common households, at least. But for the elites? The people who mean something? Whose image must be upheld? They’re still bound by that governed law established centuries ago; abide by their ancestors- the very law that resulted in their blood-line cohesing in the manner it did. Tony has evaded the law for years, somehow flying below the radar with the title of Iron-Man acting as shield to protect him and his free-will. His obligation to Iron-Man, to the world and the Avengers, excused his obligation to an agreement he never willfully made. Until it doesn’t. A business trip results in a sudden shift- a complete obliteration of progress he and Peter made in regards to their blooming relationship. He’s changed, and Peter can’t figure out why. Will his stubbornness result in a discovery of a love he thought to be lost? Or will he uncover more than he bargained for?An alternate reality where Thanos was killed the first time, on Titan. Successfully taken down and removed from the world's list of impending disasters. This, here, is the aftermath of that destruction. Of a betrayal that was unintentional; of a relationship forged in an unlikely climate.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	1. Prologue; The betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> And here I reside again, when I surely have better things to do with my life than obsess over a ship that has already consumed a large portion of my time. Whoops. Anywhoodle, I present to you yet another work I intend to get so emotionally invested in it becomes insane. I am so excited to share this with you, and in case you're looking for other Starker works check out my page! I currently have a series I'm in the process of finishing. :) (Another alternate-Thanos world with a bit more angst and semi-developing plot)
> 
> Side note, I would NEVER wish to see a relationship like this develop in real life. But given the realms of fantasy and its endless bounds, we are free to do as we please here and agonize over these idiots. Enjoy!

Peter can’t feel his face: it was numb, with the faintest sensation of coldness pulsing across his cheeks. His tongue felt swollen in his mouth, glued down by the syrupy blood coating his teeth and when he spits- it tastes like the rustic sand on Titan. Leaves the same gritty texture. His hands crunch along the snow covered ground; dirt and mud meeting his every attempt at searching for purchase to raise his weight- to pull him from the rubble remains of a Stark Industries hovercraft. 

To match the syrup in his mouth was the same red textured blood dripping down his inner thigh, his suit split open to reveal layers of separated flesh in a cut that was much deeper than a simple flesh wound but with gritted teeth and determination, he refused to let it inconvenience him or deter his direction. The pain is a barely-there ripple at his subconscious, contending with the ringing in his ear as his fluttering eyes kept attempting to focus on the hazy scene of chaos surrounding him. 

There is something there, deep within his gut- something that was a warning but untouchable, luring him towards the safe terrains just beyond the billowing smoke pouring out of a chitauri ship, yet he pushed aside his instincts and rather faced his fear as he drags his worthless leg behind him and towards the only moving lump he can make out in the thick layer of smog surrounding them.

Death is a heavy stench, twining with burning trees and melting wires. “Nat,” he cries out, his voice a wet rasp that ends with him spitting up more blood- gritting his teeth across more sand. 

Nobody answers, and the motionless heap reveals itself as it rolls onto its back and Peter is left to stare down at a faceless alien- it’s entire body scorched with a very prominent circular wound piercing through its chest, the signature evident enough that it gives Peter the slightest hope of Tony’s survival. 

“You will not live,” the aliens' guttural voice forces out, blood fountaining from their parted lips. The snow beneath them quickly colors with their blood, looking no different than a cherry-red slushee Peter has a particular sweet tooth for. His stomach rolls and he has to look away, not yet prepared to lose that part of his childish innocence he holds close to his tattered heart. “My father has fallen, but many will come. I am but one of his bas-”

The sentence is cut off and the silence pierced by a near-silent gun chamber unloading a bullet. The sad fact is, is more noise is made when the bullet pierces the Aliens’ skull than the actual gun made and with startled brown eyes, he rolls to his side and drops to a crouch- fingers curling down into the snow to help hold his balance, prepared to fight whoever has come to take him, to attack him; to finish what Thanos couldn’t. 

In those three seconds, he thinks about the people he’s met in the last five years. Of their faces; their impact on his life and how differently his life might have been if he’d chosen a different course. He can see their faces, vividly- feel their warmth and love, remember how alone he’d felt before Tony Stark had violated his privacy and barged into his adolescent bedroom still decorated with his childish art, and drug him from his desk- insisting he retire the onesie and become somebody that would make May proud. Make the world proud. 

And he thinks about how much they’ve changed him. Molded him into the person he is today- fearless, by their definition. Rebellious and strong. Worthy of love and perhaps a title as an Avenger. They’ve protected him- have, this entire fight. He can see vividly Cap throwing his shield at an alien flanking his left, and Wanda shooting red daggers of energy just beyond Peter’s shoulder to embed in threats not seen by his eye. 

With the sound of stirring around him- consciousness disturbing the disorientating sensation of a cocooned disaster, he is reminded of their disadvantage, their growing weaknesses brought on by Thanos’ onslaught. Their resources have dwindled and they’ve all fallen with exertion, falsely believing their last threat was taken care of. 

And it’s with those thoughts, those memories, that he shots out a blind web and flings himself forward with the very last of his strength: only now realizing how much it all meant to him.

  
  



	2. Chapter 1: Call me Tony

It used to be hard to decipher his original instincts from his newly heightened ones- to tell if he was always aware of every pair of eyes focused on him, of the low thrum of heartbeats surrounding him, each contending with one another before they fell into a compatible synchronization. Some days, he doesn’t know how he survived waking up that first day, able to smell the dust lining the top shelf of his closet while he stood on the opposite end of the apartment, hidden behind his bathroom door with his hands pressed against his ears to stave off the loud banging of his neighbor across the street washing her dishes. 

May’s fried eggs and burnt toast were all powerful stimulations assaulting his senses; forcing his stomach into a dry-heaving spell as his skin somehow managed to focus on the air that pulsed across his skin with the strongest impression of a caress. He barely remembers anything beyond the sudden raw, primal desire for freedom and flight; to scour a building and launch himself from several stories high with adrenaline coursing through his veins and the pit of his stomach clenching with anticipation. The smack of his feet hitting the pavement before he took off at a dead run at three am was still pounded into his skull; as fresh a memory today, as it had been then. 

It was all a blur, everything, as he ripped his way through the city that suddenly smelt so incredibly different yet familiar, with May’s scent somehow following him across Queen’s and towards an abandoned railroad track where he could smell the faintest sweetness of churros that had once been sold at the concession window now boarded up. It was in those beginning days, as he pushed himself to his newly discovered limits, that he often wondered if he’d been attempting to outrun his newly acquired talents, or if he was truly testing himself. 

Whatever his thoughts had been then, were entirely different now. With years of opportunity to perfect his craft, he was given the luxury of dulling his senses with enough focus so as to not overwhelm himself. To tame his strength and unstable reactions to new stimulations. There were still days he questioned his worth, his intentions, but not today. Today is one of those days where he’s  _ thankful  _ for the spider bite. For his reality.

“You should really try to aim for the dummies, Mr. Stark,” he teases Tony as he sits laxly against the concrete wall, the window above his head shimmering with the afternoon sun. After roping Tony out of his lab for a rare in-dining dinner, Peter somehow talked him into a quiet night of practice in the gym- using the excuse of needing to brush up on his own skills and stealthiness while infield, even if his intentions were to get Tony out of his lab and back into a setting where violence was an outlet- a distraction, not a death warrant meant to be evaded. 

Peter was more diligent about practicing than the others. They all brushed up on their skills every once in a while, just to keep themselves fresh and in-shape, but this was a daily thing for him and it was nice to finally have company. He’s already ran his course for the day, but Tony has avoided his dummies for the entirety of his session, only now venturing to his placement before them now that he had nothing more to dictate his attention or distract Peter from his intentional evasion. 

“Wow, hadn’t thought of that,” Tony easily replies, sarcasm a thick coat on his words as he rolls his shoulders and lifts his arms once again, elbows bent with his repulsors primed and aimed at the dummies. Hesitation draws his hands back against his chest, and time extends beyond them into a plappable, tension filled blanket that hovers suffocatingly around Tony’s tense body. 

Peter’s month-long worry session extends into the moment, and he’s reminded of Tony’s actions and his previous refusals and excuses to get him out of practice. Out of anything he deemed confrontational. It was out of character and, admittedly, a little unsettling. Peter’s brows furrow and he leans forward, leg propped with his elbow resting on his knee. “You alright, Mr. Stark? We don’t have to finish practice today- we can call it a night, if you’d like.”

Tony’s exhales in a rush, entire body shaking from the exhalation as he tilts his head back to gaze up at the vaulted ceiling and Peter follows his gaze. Above them were light rafters, wooden beams criss crossing each other in a complicated woven pattern to create an intricate detailed above-ground training course that was intended for Peter and Tony, given their mobility. It was really just a complicated looking monkey bar, but was meant to heighten Peter’s maneuverability and abilities to hone in on a specific attacker to avoid their shots. Tony was always the one chasing him when he ran those courses but.. Well, it’s been months. 

He idly wonders if Tony’s remembering back on those days, too. 

“Nah,” Tony scoffs, the forced casualness not going unnoticed by Peter, who looks away towards the rows of treadmills and other gym equipment- attempting to avoid acknowledging Tony’s jestering smile. It was faux, and he hated it. “Just a little rusty. Give me a minute to warm up,”

It wasn’t entirely unbelievable, even if Peter knew it to not be the whole truth. Tony has refused to return to the field since.. The incident. The one they were all swore to never talk about again, even if Peter wore it like a sheen layer of protection and vigilance on his skin. It was a suit of armor, yet it was entirely opposite for Tony. It was his weakness, or so they claimed. His undoing. 

Returning his gaze to Tony, they both tense when the doors on the opposite end of the room opens and despite there being nothing to interrupt, Peter still feels openly bare and invaded as Natasha comes walking in- harbors a sense of irritation for her as she sashays towards the row of targets overhung above the rows of weaponry- ranging from guns, bows, to knifes and selective options like newly designed weapons from Fury they were still uncertain of their exact capabilities. 

She intentionally ignores them; keeps herself and her movements as silent as possible as she plucks a utility belt from the wall and weighs it down with a dozen daggers- all sharpened to a perfect point. Now, with an audience that extends beyond Peter, Tony lifts his arms in preparation once more and Peter feels bitter as he watches the first white light shoot out from the repulsor. Something he’s attempted to coax out for hours, and all it took was Nat’s quizzical eye to achieve that goal. 

Was this Tony’s way of showing off? Fueled by the pleasure of an audience that harbored more than just his silly little protege. Was he boosting himself in front of Nat? Showing off to impress her? 

He’s never tried to impress Peter, or so the boy thinks. Nothing in his vast collection of memories sticks out, and he swipes a hand across his eyebrows with a muted grumble- displeasure hunching his shoulders forward to curl around his leg as he rests his chin on his knee. 

It’s jealousy- raw and burning, yet he refuses to acknowledge it as much. Tony just didn’t want to seem weak in front of Nat- that’s it. Around Peter, he could be free. Do as he pleases. Feel and act without thought or repercussions. 

It was a beautifully wonderful fantasy. 

The dull thud as a knife hits the padded target board draws Peter’s attention away from the exploding dummy, and he watches as Nat- with perfect form, embeds the daggers into the target, one after another, with minimal effort and her movements as quick as a lightning bolt. He hardly sees her hand move, or her body twist to conform around her building monumentum. She moves in a smooth, straight line and his previous bitterness is slowly forgotten as his amazement rises. He’s always been amazed with Natasha and her effortless abilities. It was uncanny, what she could do. 

The glare from the sun off of Tony’s repulsors reflects back in Peter’s eyes and he turns, heart lurching in his throat, when he sees they’re aimed at him and he’s suddenly reminded of what they can do- the power hidden behind each innocent gauntlet. But Tony’s smirking- safe, oblivious to the reaction he’s elicited, and he waves a hand towards his once pristine row of dummies- all now reduced down to wood and exploded padding with charred marks grazing the surface of the concrete wall just behind him, and Peter swallows back his fear to force a smile. 

He’s smirking at  _ Peter.  _ Not Nat. The observation goes over Peter’s head, however. 

“They didn’t stand a chance,” he says, voice still influenced enough by the surprise and fear that it sounds off- so he pauses for effort and closes his eyes to regain control. “A day out here was what you needed- you’ve been cooped up in the labs for too long,” and Peter knows why, of course he does- and he understands, but that doesn’t mean it makes it any easier or his missing presence any less obvious. 

Tony flashes a confident grin, one that’s been plastered across so many news-articles and magazines- one that reminds Peter of Tony’s humor and careless ease when it comes to the public's eye and his performance before them. He carries his fame so easily; so arrogantly, and Peter’s constantly reminded he will never, ever be as effortless in his quest of becoming a strong, memorable public figure. “Thought I forgot how to shoot a few defenseless mannequins, did you?” He glances back at Natasha then, and Peter is immediately hit with the impression that this isn’t actually  _ Tony,  _ but another act he’s putting on. One of his many facades wore so frequently. 

“I’d be impressed if you could do that on the field,” Natasha calls out, obviously ease-dropping on their conversation. 

Tony’s tanned skin remains as flawless as always, with the sun kissing the divots of his clavicles, but Peter swears he sees it run a shade or two redder: a subtle change in tinting, but Nat apparently doesn't catch it. “Says the one who can’t do  _ squat  _ without Steve throwing you around off his shield,”  _ maybe the reaction was from anger and not embarrassment? _

Peter chuckles and Tony looks pleased by the noise, his smile widening a fraction and this time appearing  _ genuine.  _

Natasha rolls her eyes. “You’re one to talk, Stark. I see our little spider doing all your leg-work. Wouldn’t have the reputation you do right now if Peter hadn’t stole Steve’s shield all those years ago,”

“Mr. Stark is perfectly capable by himself,” Peter interrupts, feeling the need to defend the man even if he could speak for himself. 

“Tony.”

“What?” Peter asks, looking at Tony- feeling like he misheard him. Natasha walks a few steps closer, abandoning her butchered targets, and unstraps her utility belt only to drape it over her shoulder. He knew he heard the older man correctly- the quickening pace of his heart translating his anxiety to the rising situation, but he refused to acknowledge it if Tony didn’t bring it up again. 

Nat looked confused, too.

“Call me Tony,” he smirks weakly, his nano-bats racing back up the curve of his knuckles and calloused hands to retreat back into his watches. “I like to hear my real name sometimes, you know? I’m Iron-Man to the world, or Mr. Stark to my employees and Stark to, well- to you guys. Might as well hear my teammates call me it, yeah?”

Peter’s eyebrows inch up his forehead, curious. He’s never heard Tony tell, or ask, anyone of this before and he never considered it to be a problem that actually bothered him. He called Tony Mr. Stark for obvious reasons- reasons he wouldn’t even admit to himself, but Nat? And Steve? They called him Stark simply because of the impression of power it leaves on one’s tongue. It was a conveying of respect, but apparently one that wasn’t taken lightly. 

“Tony.” Nat tests out, nodding and seemingly liking the way her tongue rolls around the syllables.

Peter, however, feels his courage waver as he goes to open his mouth- knowing damn well he could  _ never  _ call Tony by his name. He wishes more than anything that Tony would overlook his unwillingness to bend to his simple request. But, as luck would have it, the man wasn’t prepared to give up easily.

Expectant eyes focus on Peter. “I’ll call you whatever you want,” Peter breathes, strangled by his own heart. “But I prefer to call you Mr. Stark, sir. My aunt May has instilled manners in me and I-I don’t want to forget my roots.” he meekly shrugs- the excuse weak.

Tony’s eyes narrow, catching on to a furled lip at the corner of Peter’s lie and with a testing tug, he asks- “Not even once?”

He’s going to unravel Peter’s entire life if he asks every single question like that one- posed with such a quiet plea that it strikes him breathless. “I don’t want to get in the habit, sir.”

“I think it’s cute,” Natasha interrupts, saving Peter but her focused gaze let him know she saw him for all he was worth, and knew his lie was just a fabrication of fear. She could see his truth, yet she was merciful enough to remove the spotlight from it. “The way Peter maintains a level of respect with you, despite the fact that he can kick your ass on and off the field,”

Tony’s narrowed, suspicious gaze lights up. “Cute, huh?” he shakes his head jokingly, dismissing Nat’s latter comment in favor of focusing on the  _ wrong  _ one. “You should see exactly what hides beneath all these suits,” he waves a suggestive and over his body and smirks.. Shyly? Or just quietly. Surely the latter, because Tony Stark, of all people, never got  _ shy.  _

“Under?” Peter asks quieter than he meant to, squirming beneath the scrutinizing gaze painting his skin with goosebumps. He felt small, still sat on the floor; Tony towering above him in an awe-inducing reflection of his larger than life ego. For a split moment, he can’t feel his body anymore. 

He returns Tony’s intense gaze- almost as if he was attempting to memorize the older mans face: but the truth was, his mind felt dizzy and a blush was quickly growing up his neck and painting his cheeks with a lively shade of pink. 

It felt like Tony was putting him on the spot, bestowing him the privilege of suddenly being the center of his show- but for what reason. If any? Or maybe it was the gentle way Tony was speaking to him- a light teasing tinged with something a little more meaningful than just a playful quip, but something a lot less than Peter was making it out to be. Yet, those chocolate eyes he’s dreamed of for years stayed steadily focused on him and..

Tony’s smile breaks the trance, all smooth and arrogant-free. “So even the infamous Peter Parker blushes,” he crouches down to eye-level and leans in close- far too close for Peter’s usual comfort, but for some reason, he doesn’t mind. “I won’t tell,” he whispers, winking. 

“I do not,” Peter denies, dizzy but defiant, “I’m just hot- I’ve been working my ass off down here while you showed off to Nat.” In an embarrassed panic, Peter places a hand on Tony’s chest with the intention of pushing him away but at the press of hard muscles dancing beneath his softened hand, he freezes- unaware of what to do next. He didn’t think that far ahead. 

A long, solid shadow casts over them and at the reminder of Natasha’s presence, Peter startles back and drops his hand into his lap, breaking their eye contact. Over Tony’s shoulder, Nat smirks. “Wanna learn how to kick ass without all your pretty gadgets, Tony? I could teach you a few tricks.”

Tony shifts back on his haunches with a grunt, glaring. “I was in the middle of a conversation, you creepy leech.”

“Flirting hardly classifies as anything when it concerns you, Tony.” Natasha counters, winking at Peter. “Now just admit you’re afraid to get your ass kicked by a girl so I can finally go and gloat to Steve and Sam.”

Tony, quickly forgetting Peter, stands up and whirls around- his and Natasha’s banter easily falling into a muted background noise as Peter focuses on steading his heartbeat. He tries to catch his breath; blood returning to his heart from his heated face. In the span of seconds Tony has completely derailed his every attempt at remaining hidden and anonymous in his quest of admiring the man- and he’d called him out on nearly every single thing Peter has gone to great lengths to hide. 

The way Tony’s name makes him feel- the idea of the man naked beneath his gaze, Peter being embarrassed over a simple discussion of nudity. An effortless destruction of his tetris-inspired life, and yet, Tony was able to walk away unfazed. 

Did he hate it? The idea that Tony was taking a joke way too far? The rushing of blood singing through his veins definitely didn't mind, nor did the heat pooling in his belly- a sensation he barely recognizes yet is intimately familiar with.

_ Fuck.  _

Peter stands on weak legs, barely managing to hold himself upright but with a few seconds to regain his bearings and feeling in his right leg, he takes a step forward and now, a little more sure, he takes a few more. “I think I’m going to call it a night,” he says, feigning a yawn for good measure. He smiles at them both, but intentionally avoids Tony’s eyes. 

Tony and Nat pause their banter, which has ventured worryingly closer to the weaponry wall, and Natasha does a small, almost awkward, wave goodbye. “Goodnight, Pete.”

“Get some rest, Peter,” Tony says, smiling. It was nice to see, admittedly, after being deprived of it for so long.

“I will,” he nods and, like always, he grants himself one last lingering second to look over Tony’s familiar, yet foreign body- then he turns around and leaves.

\---

With Tony and Natasha behind him, and the worry of what exactly happened in there, Peter treks through the tower's numerous hallways. The clean, pristine white is blinding to his sensitive eyes, a reminder of just how different he was to all the humans who walked around here. Cleaner and motor-oil assaulted his nose- twining with the fragrant trace of Tony’s cologne and Nat’s woodsy, yet floral, perfume. The evidence of their presence in the tower was left splattering all across the walls- a ghost of a scent here, or the echo of their voice there. 

Even now, stories above them, he swears he can hear Tony, as clear as day, calling him out.  _ So even the infamous Peter Parker blushes.  _

Well, who the fuck wouldn’t? His reaction was fair, wasn’t it? Warranted? Who, in their right mind, wouldn’t  _ blush  _ when directly asked to think about a  _ naked  _ Tony Stark when it was the same exact man making the suggestion; planting the imagery. 

He was unfairly cornered up there, and he’s not entirely convinced Natasha wasn’t in on it with Tony, given her more than fucking helpful conversation starter for Tony.  _ I think it’s cute.  _

Peter bitterly mimics her, the distraction enough to make him ignore the tingle shooting down his spine in warning, and rounds the corner- only to run into the hard chest of Nick Fury. 

The man glares down at him. “Conference room. Now.”

  
  



	3. Chapter 2: You're a better man than me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand that using the tag & while writing a story that ends with / isn't exactly morally correct, given i'm exposing strictly platonic shippers to a relationship they aren't comfortable with, but the tag best fits the roles I'm writing right now. They're strictly platonic with the slightest impression of more being a possibility. Until I pair them together, or hint towards their relationship being anything indirectly pure, I will remove that tag. 
> 
> So, disclaimer for those who wandered here with expectations I know I can not meet: THIS STORY IS A STARKER FIC. I fully intend to pair them together in the end, and have their relationship be endgame. I understand why you do not support nor intentionally seek that out- and why it may make you uncomfortable, but he is OF AGE in this story. The age-gap is prominent but, sadly, not the most dramatic. IN REAL LIFE there are relationships that far surpass the age-gap I'm depicting in this story. You have been warned, and I wish you nothing but the best. I apologize to those of you I have offended. 
> 
> Now, on to chapter two. Enjoy! :)

In the furthest, darkest corner, came the filtered breath that wavered with effort at keeping silent, Fury’s single eye focusing on Peter with a gaze so intense that it made his skin crawl and chest unfurl with his blossoming discomfort. Peter stares back in silence, unwavering before the inspecting gaze; chin held high in defiance with his hands clasped before his body to hide the minor tremors racing through his fingers. He didn’t know Fury all that well; certainly not in the way that Tony did, or even the rest of them. He’s never been alone in the man’s presence- or, really, ever in his presence for longer than seconds without someone coming to his rescue but with the glass windows tinted for privacy, and the door staying stubbornly closed, he knew his chance of being saved were slim to none. 

Unaware of what the reason for this meeting was, Peter’s lips curl into a wobbly smile. His best attempt at summoning his inner courage, often worn when dressed as spider-man; missing, tucked away with his suit in the desk upstairs where he’d abandoned his watch this morning. The same watch Tony had designed for him after he graduated high-school, mimicking the technology with his backpack, but now in a much more convenient and less-suspicious designer watch.

For a moment, Peter can feel his heartbeat in his skull. The stupid, silly thing reverberating its pulse throughout his entire body, attempting to translate a fear and kick in his fight or flight instinct but he ignores it and sways forward to clasps his hands on the back of the vacant chair before him. After a long moment, he tests his voice. “May I ask why you directed me here, Director Fury?”

“I took it upon myself to request a ticket of transfer,” he says, ever intimidating with the curve of his nose cutting through Peter’s vision as Fury turns to gaze out the windows that overlooks the city. “You have until the weeks end to collect your items and fix any loose ends you may have.”

The sharp daylight from the hovering sun illuminates Fury’s face; his hollowed cheeks and plumped frown. Across the furthest wall, his shadow is cast small and non-threatening, speaking volumes on the little man Tony always claims him to be. 

Peter’s stomach flips. “Why would I do that?” he snaps, taking an instinctive step back only to meet the solid wall; thoroughly boxing him in between the chair and wall. 

Did Fury know of his feelings for Tony? His straying thoughts and intentions? Could he see into Peter’s mind, effortlessly visit each room in the complicated fortress and see the boy for all his worth?

Almost elegantly, Fury puts his hands behind his back and strides forward, maintaining eye contact evenly to continue using intimidation as a favorable factor  _ knowing  _ how weak authoritative figures make Peter. 

Or, well,  _ made _ before Tony Stark  _ ruined  _ him. Proved that behind every man with power, set a scared child capable of very little. Fury was arrogant- all talk and no bite. And as if he could read Peter’s thoughts, his eye narrows. “I don’t know what Stark has told you but  _ I  _ am who you answer to.  _ I  _ make the shots- I tell you you are to do something, you do it without asking  _ why.  _ Do I make myself clear?”

“Actually, sir, you haven’t.” Fury steps closer and Peter fights the urge to run away. “You’re making demands I don’t feel required to meet without a valid explanation.  _ Why  _ am I being transferred?”

“ _ Enough!”  _ Fury shouts- and Peter doesn’t even flinch. “I am the director of Shield- founder of your little group of misfits. I don’t have to tell you  _ anything.” _

Despite the snarl in Fury’s voice, Peter’s hysteria grows and he bites his lip to keep from giggling. Truly- if Fury thinks he’s the most scary, intimidating thing Peter has ever faced, he has another thing coming for him. “And I’m not required to do  _ anything  _ you demand.” As Fury’s anger grows, so does Peter’s annoyance. The man rounds the table and is almost beside Peter now; the boy turning his body accordingly with his left fist curling in preparation to strike. “Have you already forgotten? You’ve ensured I have yet to be extended an official offer to join the Avengers. To you, I’m nothing more than a fancy consultant who happens to help save the world occasionally.  _ Any  _ and all demands you make for me are to be directed to Tony.”

At a sudden standstill given Peter’s refusal to cower, Fury shoves a hand in the pocket of his pants and rolls back on the balls of his feet with a frustrated click of his tongue. “I never should have let Tony get his hands on you. He ruins everyone within his grasp,” the shift in his demeanour is immediately evident and jarring- given his hostility only seconds prior and it takes Peter a few belated seconds to understand exactly what Fury was implying.

Struck with an angry curiosity at the man's accusation, Peter allows the close proximity for the moment and uncurls his hand. “What does Tony and his influence over me have anything to do with this discussion?”

“Your smart-mouth, that’s what,” Fury bites back, though not as aggressive as before. “before Tony you were a nice, quiet, respectable kid who listened to any authoritative figure. Now I have a Tony-Fucking-Stark cabbage patch kid standing in front of me and I want to throw you out the god-damn window.”

The threat is said playfully, almost in good nature, but Peter can sense the truth and irritation behind it. In a reflexive motion, he positions himself on the opposite side of Fury- closer to the door, with the windows on his right. “You mean I won’t let you walk all over me anymore, right? Tony taught me how to stick up for myself and not let angry old men dictate my life anymore.”

“Yet Tony still does, doesn’t he?” Peter stills at the accusation in Fury’s voice- calm, almost as if it were a simple observation. “Why is that, Peter? Why is it that the man can nearly ki-”

_ No no no, not like this. Not now. He’s not ready. _

Peter’s heart lurches. “To the point, director Fury.” he interrupts, panic striking through his core and sending pulses of fear throughout his body. He’s not thought of the event- of what  _ happened,  _ and he’d rather not have Fury coldly recit it to him as if he were reading nothing more than a bedtime story to his child. Not a horror story depicted from Peter’s real life. 

Seemingly realizing he’s struck a sensitive cord, Fury’s smile grows. “You’re a ticking time-bomb, Peter. Ignoring what happened isn’t going to make it go away. You’re going to have to face it one day.”

“That days not today,” Peter grits out through clenched teeth, praying the pressure behind his eyes behave’s and doesn’t swell to fruition. “It’s  _ my  _ decision. Not yours.”

Fury nods, once. “I respect it, but I don’t agree with it. Which is why I made the request.”

Peter laughs, unamused. “You make decisions for me without consulting me? My mental health isn’t yours to worry about- okay? I can make my  _ own  _ decisions.”

“Not when it involves him, you can’t.”

Peter growls and throws his hands in the air before he fists his hair, a sudden need to move eliciting his feet into a fast-paced walk across the carpet and back. “You don’t know me- none of you do, yet you all seem to think you know what’s best for me,” another growl, though this one leaning heavily towards frustration. “I get it- Tony  _ hurt  _ me. But we were in the middle of battling the biggest threat we have ever dealt with. I do not blame his actions on him- I would have done the same.”

“You’re a better man than me, Parker.”

In the reflection of light, Peter notices the textured skin around Fury’s eye patch and abruptly stops- wondering how many men had to die for Fury to settle his bout of personally justified vengeance. “Perhaps,” he breaths, hands dropping to his side, “or perhaps I’m just a fool- but I am staying put. I know what I’m doing; Tony isn’t a threat, he never truly has been. You’re just too ignorant to see the changes he’s made. He’s not the reckless playboy you once knew.”

“No.” Fury says- curt but acknowledging. “But don’t believe everything he tells you. Tony has a past- one that’s not all rainbows and butterflies, kid.” he offers a hand, which Peter looks down at and see’s a rolled up tube of paper. “Your transfer papers- for if you ever decide Tony isn’t the hero you thought him to be.”

Peter shakes his head, refusing to take anything that would potentially rip him away from Tony, and folds his arms across his chest with his hands pressed beneath his armpits. “I won’t be needing those.” 

“Listen, kid, your problems bring me no joy. I’m just trying to look out for you, that’s all.” Fury sets the papers down on the table and shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“You underestimate me,” Peter blurts, just as the man is preparing to walk out of the room. 

Fury shakes his head, hand extended with his stubby fingers curled around the door-handle, not yet pulling it open but leaving the option there. “I underestimated Tony’s influence on you, that’s all.”

Confused by what that means, Peter goes to ask but before he can do so the door is pulled open and Fury disappears out of it. By the time Peter reaches the hallway, the man is out of sight.

Reeling on exactly what just happened, Peter retreats back to the stuffy conference room and collapses in the chair- his head falling to rest in his hands. Fury, when realizing direct-authoritation would no longer cut it, retreated into safer terrains and rather used Peter’s emotions against him because he  _ knew  _ Peter would listen to the reasonings beyond Fury’s actions without a second thought if Tony was involved.

Was he really that transparent?

Did the world really know that his direct thought-process centered solely around Tony, rather it be good or bad? And is it bad that, for the slightest second, Peter had actually considered transferring? 

Starting over for someone in their line of work was nearly impossible- impractical, really. But the offer was there for him, now. Offered on a silver platter and he wouldn’t be the silly little kid recruited for a sole event but somehow managed to con his way into sticking around permanently with no real title or claim to fame. He wouldn’t be the kid who stole Cap’s shield at the air-bae, or the inexperienced freak who managed to survive an entire building collapsing on him. He would be experienced, and respected, and looked at as a valuable member rather than just an added asset that was disposable.

But he knew it all to be fantasy based. Wherever he went, wherever Fury intended for him to stick his roots in- would be somewhere too far away from home- from Tony. It was silly, and pathetic, but New York would forever claim him in a way no other state or City could; in a way that Tony could. He was sure the other team, whoever they were, would be kind and accepting and maybe a bit more understanding when Peter wakes up half of them with his screaming after another fear-induced nightmare startled him awake. 

But they wouldn’t be the Avengers, and Peter wouldn’t be Peter. He wouldn’t be happy out there, he knew that.

He knew these guys far too well to let a little temptation persuade him. He knew their strengths; their weaknesses. He knew what Nat looked like when she woke up, and how Rhodey coped with another night away from his family. He knew Tony preferred scotch to any other kind of alcohol, and Steve’s favorite meal was lasagna. He knew so many intimate and personal details just to willingly give it up. Would he have it with that other team? The same sensation of completeness hedged with the slightest impression of being underestimated and overlooked?

Probably not.

And he never wanted to lose that. Any of it. Even if he did have bad memories and experiences- one centralized around Tony and his questionable sanity. His scars from that event weren’t evident on his body, but left lasting impressions on his heart. And if he could ignore them? Overlook the fear borne from that lousy day? Why couldn’t everyone else? Why the hell couldn’t they trust his decisions.

With the decision finalized, he rips the paper up into tiny, unscramble pieces and tosses it into the bin on his way out of the room- vowing to never offer it even a second more of his time.

\-----

Despite his best efforts not to remember it, he remembers it now.

The guilt pouring from the warmth of Tony’s hands- not his repulsors, which is definitely something worth mentioning- as they attempt to hold Peter together despite the wild sensation of falling apart remaining. He could feel something warm gurgling up his throat, thick and sticky- like an over-cooked syrup that was nearly caramelized. Cold was an ever-prominent chill clinging to his low hooded eyes and his shaking limbs. He could feel the hard ground beneath his body, feel the sun pelting across his skin as the snow melts around him- burning with his blood. 

He was in shock- he knew he was in shock. His body reeling with adrenaline swamping his veins; stars painting his swimming vision. He just can’t remember  _ why _ he was in shock. 

Then, he’s flying. Or rather, he’s airbound. Lifted into Tony’s arms and cradled against the strong chest as words of affirmation and encouragement are whispered in his ringing ear. None register, but he still feels that low voice tickling against his ear.

God, does he remember. 

How it felt to be held in Tony’s secure embrace; security and warmth soaking into him, chasing away the pain. Tony refused to let him go; carrying him bridal style the entire ship ride home and even into the tower. The medical staff didn’t question his intentions when he sat with Peter the entire thirty six hours he was unconscious- nobody dared to, in fact. They knew better.

Knew Tony had caused it. That the blood staining his hands were from his own actions- not some alien. 

Not some  _ human.  _ But him.

He doesn’t remember what had happened before that- he’s intentionally blocking it out for the sole purpose of focusing on the events that occurred after. He doesn’t want to remember the sound of Tony’s repulsor tearing through his flesh, or how it felt to feel his life-force quickly deteriorating before his very gaze. 

He wants to remember Tony, and his attentiveness afterwards. 

For three days, he didn’t leave Peter’s side. Then, the moment he was sure the boy was awake- he was locked away in his tower and refused to come out. For two months nobody saw him. Month three? Pepper talked him into coming out for breakfast. His presence steadily grew from there, but he always avoided Peter. He held the guilt like a quilt of armor and refused to shed it. 

It wasn’t until last month that he finally began talking to the boy again- nearly five months later. 

Their relationship- er,  _ friendship  _ was still rocky, and Tony  _ still  _ couldn’t make eye contact with Peter for longer than a few seconds, but today, in the gym- that was progress.  _ Real  _ progress. Tony didn’t look at him  _ once _ with the heavy sadness and self-appointed guilt that usually clings to his eyes. For those moments, it was almost like Tony had forgotten. And Peter refuses to allow Fury to take that away from him- that possibility of  _ more. Of Better.  _

Shaking free of those thoughts, he cracks an eye open to assure he isn’t being watched- clothes still damp from a sheen layer of sweat and the faintest drizzle of rain from the run he just returned from after his visit with Fury. Peter leans back on the couch, allowing the hard, designer material to conform around his aching spine and, in an attempt to keep his mind clear, he closes his eyes, takes three deep breaths, and opens his them again to take in his surroundings.

Vision sat on the couch, talking to Wanda as the woman attempted to explain sarcasm to him without being repetitive or impatient with her explanations. He was back in his normal form, red skin glinting in the white lighting as his eerily-human like features responded with the appropriate responses as his eyebrows divoted and his mouth twisted with confusion. 

Peter giggles, tired and loopy from his exerting day, and turns his attention to Bruce, who was draped carelessly across the large cushioned chair with an ipad in his hand and a stylus captured between his teeth. Thor was sitting in the corner, looking every bit the god he was as he sharpened stormbreaker between two centralized sparks of lightning that licked across the blades and left them sharper than before, yet somehow never once did it reflect the electricity.

The hairs on Peter’s arms stood in alarm at the sight of the gods weapon, but he ignores the reaction in favor of bringing his hand up and pressing his thumb harshly into his thigh- the one he injured by pushing himself too far tonight in seek of some personalized punishment, which keeps him grounded to reality without threatening to turn over his instincts to his senses. Pain keeps him centered- dulled out his other senses as his body focused to heal his tore muscles and ligaments. 

Venturing his gaze towards the loudest source of noise, he finds Natasha and Clint bickering back and forth- the argument apparently heated yet entirely indecipherable as their words are whispered with aggressive force. Sam, who was lingering in the side lines, laughs at something Nat hisses and murmurs something in reference to her response. It earns him a glare and a very colorful threat before he stands up, hands held in surrender, and retreats to the opposite side of the room to fall into discussion with Thor- apparently not at all intimidated by the loner god.

Steve was leant against a wall, sat on the floor, with Bucky leaning against his shoulder in an uncharacteristic display of intimacy. Both had their eyes closed, a sense of solitude brushing their serene faces even with their charred, bloody clothing still clinging to their toned bodies from the mission they’d just returned from. Bucky’s metal arm was hidden from sight, but Peter still felt the crushing power of it as it grabbed his hand- used only a partial of its strength to help him build momentum to fling him at the new flux of aliens they’d dealt with months ago, after the accident. A sudden wave brought on by Thanos’ destruction- courage a poor shield as redemption forged his orphans actions. 

“Sarcasm is just another form of lying?” Vision asks, head tilting in honest consideration.

“No- it’s more or less just talking with irony,” Wanda explains, her hand reaching out to hold Visions offered one and Peter’s heart warms at the sight- yet simultaneously makes it yearn. There was one person he’s yet to see- a person whose arrival he was anticipating the most since they were interrupted during practice, but it wasn’t unlike Tony to disappear to regain his witts and bearings before he found his way back to the team- to Peter. Tonight, however, his absence was apparently more prominent and Peter rubs a bit more aggressively at his aching thigh.

Fury had unsettled Peter a little, that’s all.

“So- when Peter says we are friends, we are not actually friends?” Which, clearly he was venturing off topic by dragging Peter into the conversation but it seems Vision sensed Peter’s averted direction of thought and quickly souring mood. He was just trying to save him from his own self-sabotaging. 

“We are friends,” Peter reassures him, smiling to help convey his claim as he turns his head to look at them. Wanda has her back to him, her long-red hair still crackling with her unrestrained electricity, yet never threatening to leave the strands on her hair. 

“Oh, goodie, I thought we were best friends. That is worse than being friends, is it not?”

“No- being someone's best friend means you are the most important person in their life. Would you like to be my best friend, Vis?”

Vision’s brows furrow as the words seem to catch up to him. “Oh,” he breaths, then turns his eyes to Peter. He frowns, sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Peter, but I care most about Wanda. We can be friends- is that fine?” 

Peter stifles a laugh, but smiles nonetheless. “Yeah, vis, that’s fine.”

“I’m wounded,” a new voice chimes in, “Genuinely wounded. I thought I was the most important person in your life, Vis.” Tony appears before them, hovering closer to Peter but keeping his eyes focused on Vision- emitting the aura of a composed tension. He still smells of sweat and steel, evidence of his time in the gym- the tinge of metallic coiling Peter’s stomach into tight-knotted ribbons. He is still in his under armour; a compression suit that adheres to his skin so flawlessly it leaves very little to the imagination. 

Peter’s mouth pools with saliva- which he ungracefully, but subtly, chokes on. Tony flickers his gaze to him and raises an eyebrow in question, but doesn’t actually voice the question and for that, Peters is grateful. He was already mortified over his reaction- imagine having  _ Tony freaking Stark call him out _ the  _ same  _ freaking day he suggests Peter indirectly seeing him nude. 

_ So even the infamous Peter Parker blushes.  _

At the memory, heat spreads to his cheeks. 

“Oh dear, I've offended Tony.” Vision breathes, concerned. 

“No, see, that’s sarcasm,” Tony says, shooting him a wink. He subtly turns his eyes to Peter, somehow making the shift of conversation natural as he jerks his head up. “Let’s go eat, Spidey.”

Peter stands without further instructions, and behind him he can hear Vision exclaim; “He is not hurt! It is just sarcasm.” 

Peter can feel Tony’s presence behind him, doesn’t even question where they are going or why he’s being drug to dinner when the others surely haven’t eaten but he refuses to let go of this opportunity. Not when Tony was willingly talking to him  _ and  _ dragging him away for a moment of compatible solitude when he’s avoided Peter like the plague. He, still, blindly trusts the man and it’s his biggest flaw. His spidey-senses are stupidly quiet around Tony and Peter craves that solitude.

“You are insufferable!” Natasha shouts, and in the time it takes for Peter to turn a curious eye on them Natasha has already brandished a knife from her ankle and has it held to Clint’s throat. “Retract that statement, Barton, before I cut your tongue out and serve it to your daughter for dinner.”

The room suddenly goes still. Peter knows Tony doesn’t intentionally do it, yet a hand is placed on Peter’s elbow- the first  _ and  _ direct time Tony has touched him since the accident, and he’s guided behind a larger figure; Tony’s body sufficiently shielding him from Nat’s view. They all knew she wouldn’t hurt him, or at least Peter did- Tony didn’t seem to get the memo and he didn’t seem to care, if his tense shoulders were a proper depiction. 

_ Was he remembering his fear from back on-  _ no, nevermind. He doesn’t want to think about that now, not when he’s being offered to stand so close to Tony.

Peter curls closer to the man, not quite chest to back but close enough he could feel the heat the older man was emitting; feel the fine tremor of anger using his spine as a live-wire. He placed a cautious hand on Tony’s arm, testing the limits placed for him- fingers curling at the crease of his elbow, and leans to the side just enough that his eyes peak around his frame to watch the scene unfold. 

Clint gulps, the movements unsettling the blade just enough it nicks a centimeter forward and Peter watches, fascinated, as it draws a tiny droplet of crimson to the surface of his pale skin. “I’m sorry I’m not going to blindly follow you to your death.” Clint says, not backing down or wavering. 

“Did you really think it through when you shot out your first arrow, Clint? We all believe our cause to be the right one- how does mine differ so far from yours?”

“You’re asking me to risk my life for something that doesn’t exist anymore! They disbanded the group, Nat. Is that not enough?”

Tony seems to dethaw from the state of shock he was in and takes a step forward, hand subtly reaching behind him where he captures Peter’s hand in his grasp before it can fall to his side. There, their fingers lace and Peter’s body twitches with a sudden awareness of heat, feeling and an overwhelming sensation of stimulation. 

_ This was new _ . Not unpleasant, not in the least. But  _ really  _ fucking new and his heart thumps hard in his chest. 

“Care to explain to the peanut gallery, or do we get to watch you castrate Clint with no backstory? I gotta tell you- I can get behind you on this, but your plot is lacking severely and it won’t make good popcorn mat-”

“For the love of god, Tony, shut the fuck up and mind your own business,” Clint barks, and it seems both him and Nat are finally agreeing on something because she’s allowed the knife to slip in it’s positioning and fall lax in her grasp long enough for her to turn disbelieving eyes on Tony. 

“It’s my business when you bleed on my thousand dollar carpet- if you’re going to be wild animals, take it out on the balcony. Let the city clean up your mess when one of you throw the other over. Do  _ not _ take it out on my penthouse.”

Bruce audibly sets his ipad down on the table and leans forward with both of his hands on his knees, stylus now behind his ear. “I would much rather they not use violence. Why don’t we let them discuss this alone? There’s no reason for you to escalate the situation, Tony.” 

Tony ignores Bruce’s disapproving stare. “That’s rich, coming from you. If you feel like letting the big guy out to help me cheer them on, then let loose. But if you’re going to continue to use reason and try to calm them down because you happen to be boning one of them- then you're expelled from the peanut gallery and your comments are hereby omitted.”

“Secrets. Nat is keeping her secrets and attempting to chase down ghosts.” Clint says, and Peter isn’t sure if he’s offering up information for the sake of silencing Tony or because he genuinely fears for his life and is hoping one of them will save him from his fate beneath the Black Widows blade. 

“Ghosts? Why? What ghosts?” Tony asks, abandoning Peter in favor of stepping closer to the two unstable agents. He drops Peter’s hand, and the boy feels his absence like a punch to the gut. His fingers feel tingly and unnaturally cold. 

“Is Clint being sarcastic, Wanda?” Vision asks, but they all ignore him and instead focus on Nat as she sags forward- giving in to an invisible weight. 

“I want to hunt down the founders of The Black Widow program. I want to hold those accountable for their wrongs.”

“And you plan to do what when you find them, Barbie? Murder them? Hmm?”

“I-I was going to-”

“That’s what I thought,” Tony dismisses her with a hum and, apparently now bored, turns his attention back to Peter- almost hesitant to take up occupancy at his side again, now that all attention was turned on them. “Unless you have a plan that doesn’t end with a blood-bath, keep your little secrets to yourself. Do not involve any of my team-members and potentially risk their lives for your own personal agenda.”

“You of all people should understand wanting revenge, Stark.”

Tony turns on her so quick Peter swears he hears the older man's neck crack. “Oh, believe me, I do- but I also understand guilt.” the air is suddenly heavy around them, and Peter feels his chest warm. “You’ll kill them, then regret it by the morning because, regardless of what they did to you, they still have a family. They’re a son, a father, a husband. You can’t rest with that knowledge on your conscience. You can’t.”

“Bold of you to assume my strength.”

“Never questioned your strength, Natasha. I’m commending you for your humanity.”

The sudden sound of feet trekking across the tiled floor was brought to Peter’s attention, and before the door even opened he immediately knew to look in that direction- his sudden alertness sufficiently cutting off any and all conversation. 

In walks Fury, his patched eye focusing on Peter with an attentiveness that shouldn’t have the ability to make his skin crawl  _ again _ \- yet he sufficiently raises that reaction and does so effortlessly. He silently prays Fury won’t discuss what they had earlier, hopes the man won’t inform them of Peter’s refusal to transfer programs. 

“We have a new mission- I understand some of you just came off of one but we’re approaching the queens-nest of Thanos’ bastards” Fury announces, giving no one a single second to recuperate or digest the information before he’s pulling out a holo-screen and explaining to them the details of their mission. They’re being split up into groups as they all work towards, and attempt to, take down the smaller covens before making their way towards the large flux of them all. 

Peter, however, sags in relief.

“We don’t get to pick our own team?” Nat asks, eyeing her paper with distaste, no doubt over the fact that she was placed with Clint. 

“Not this time. We grouped you together in teams we figured would do well together.” Fury explains, “You with Bruce and Clint, Peter with Steve and Tony, Sam with Vision and Wanda and Thor on his own because God knows we can never pair him off.”

Thor smiles proudly at this and brandishes Stormbreaker. “I have all the help I need, thank you.”

“You’re forgetting Bucky?” Steven speaks up, hand nestled between his and Bucky’s body and placed on the others thigh- Peter’s position offering the perfect view. 

“No- he will be flying the quinjet. While I understand all hands on the field are necessary, we do need to take into consideration that some of you don’t have the mobility means necessary to leave as quickly as, say, Tony. By leaving Bucky in the jet, we’re ensuring a smooth getaway.” 

“Wouldn’t it be smarter to place Clint in the jet, though? He has far more knowledge of air-craft then-“ Steve’s leaned forward now, hands placed on his knees as he prepares himself to defend Bucky’s honor but Fury has silenced him before Steve can really even build up any monumentum. 

“It’s not personal, Cap, so stop wearing your heart on your sleeve before I stick you to jet duty- I’ve already discussed this with your little gal-pal. He’s the one who requested he babysit your dumbass while in the safety of the quinjet. Simmer down there, son.” He grins wickedly at Steve, smiles far too predatorily to be friendly, and the man seems to catch on to the threat because he relents and leans back against the wall, pulling Bucky back into the safe folds of his arms. 

Not another word was spoken between them, Steve and Bucky left to whisper silently together in the corner while Fuey debriefs them on the exact details of their mission. “Tony and the hothead get to run a daycare day after tomorrow with the spider- remember to stay close to them, Peter. The forecast for the next week is rain, and we can’t afford a washed out spider, can we?” His laugh is cruel as he leaves the room, filling the air with an ominous, heavy feeling that Peter can’t quite shake even with his presence completely disintegrating from the room. 

_ Well, at least Fury wasn’t going to baby him any more or sugar-coat shit.  _ He’d much rather be publicly bullied by the man than privately praised.

He knew he wasn’t a dead weight; something that would hold Tony and Cap back. Fury just liked to harass them, Peter now, too, apparently- to get under their skin and sufficiently spook them into failing just so he could brag about their shortcomings to the unfortunate person that recruited them. His mentor just happened to be Fury’s least favorite person- the one he’s warned Peter about time and time again.

“You okay there, Pete?” Tony asks, dragging him from his thoughts with a sudden clarity as reality merged with Peter’s thoughts. He shakes off the muddled, cloudy effects and smiles tiredly at the man. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he murmurs, following behind Wanda as she leaves the room- Tony in tow behind him. “Just tired. I pushed myself too far today” and, as if to prove his point, he sways in his steps and Tony’s immediately at his side- not yet touching him but his hand are held up like he  _ wants  _ to touch Peter. He just can’t bring himself to. 

Tony, after a minute's consideration, drops his hands. “Let’s get you to bed,” he whispers in his ear, overriding Peter’s fatigue with a deep sated craving that has him leaning into the man's warmth before he can realize what he’s doing.

Tony takes his weight silently, hand placed on the small of Peter’s back as he subtly curls protectively around him- and Peter relishes in the feeling of those arms around his body again.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end- but not from danger. No, never from danger. Not with Tony- not intentionally. And his body knows that. His reaction is from quite the opposite, actually. “Tempting,” he murmurs around a yawn, sinking further into the comfort of Tony until he’s dragging languid feet behind him. “But I have to eat first. ‘Venot ate yet,” 

_ I want to eat with you.  _

His words are far too slurred now to retreat back into the safe terrains of consciousness, but Tony doesn’t seem to mind and Peter’s body is just  _ now _ finally shutting down. Trusting Tony enough to take care of him. 

_ Another one of those stupid gifts Tony will never be aware of.  _

He blacks out for a second, or he swears he does- because one second he’s watching his feet drag across the floor, and the next he’s tucked into the warm nest of his bed with a cardboard pizza box positioned by his feet at the end of his bed, and not a sign of Tony in sight. 

Disappointment flares hot in his chest for a second. Nearly five months of being ghosted and one stupid mistake set everything off course- denying him the chance to finally be in Tony’s presence without numerous eyes trekking their every move and ears hanging on to their every word.. His stupid fatigue and mutated abilities just  _ had _ to strike him into submission and ensure he  _ not _ attempt and creep into a friendly understanding with Tony. To sooth the man’s fear.

He grumbles into his thick comforter and snuggles down further into his bed. For the first time since the battle, since the  _ incident,  _ he was reminded of exactly how lucky they were.  _ He was.  _

Tony has the guilt from that day, forever would no matter how desperately or adimattely Peter tries to get rid of it. But they escaped with minimal casualties, versus the opposing side. He got to keep Tony, the version of the man not tarnished with death like his nightmares taunt him with. He got the version weighted down by instinctual guilt and sorrowful thoughts, but it was still a version he would always cherish and trust. 

However frightened he was when waking up that day, groggy and disoriented with his mind filled with cotton, he knew he could never blame or hate Tony. Even in the moment, he hadn’t feared him exactly. 

Because, well, Tony was still Tony. He was an insufferable man Peter worshipped and awed way too fucking much. It wasn’t healthy. Peter would never have him, at least in the way that he wants. And the fact that he still  _ wants  _ it after being told of how dangerous and stupid loving Tony is, really goes to show how little he thinks of his own life. 

Tony Stark, the man he was now, was worth it. 

Not the man who insists on doing some grand show or claiming of a title- the man who suddenly exclaims his heroism as he sacrifices himself for the entire world- like the one in Peter’s dreams. Peter likes Tony Stark, the man who tucks him into bed and gives him whole boxes of pizza while simultaneously taunting him and his pink cheeks. He would forever pick this Tony and give the world Iron-Man, the hero who sacrifices everything for their safety. 

Thanos, however, would get neither. 

And for the night, Peter’s thoughts are silenced. 

  
  
  



	4. Chapter 3: Tap Tap Tap

When the offer was extended to move into the tower reached Peter’s awareness, he was immediately drawn towards accepting it. But May was a reminder; a bird chirping in his ear that he would be the youngest one there by at least a decade; his tastes were all different- all unrelatable to the adults on his team. So, he made sure to suffocate himself; to conform himself and his personality around those closest to him. It dulled him down a bit, made it much more bearable to be around.

And, in turn, his room was kept magnificently bland with every scarce item placed in a specific, meticulous spot. White walls, save for the curtain wall with the glass reflecting the rising sun’s yellow hues- white carpet and a dinky brown desk meant to be used for his nightly activities but it sat bare against the wall; rarely used and barely acknowledged. His closet door was cracked open, but inside the small space every item of clothing was hung and assorted into appropriate categories. 

Sleep clothes were tucked away in the drawers in the closet, and in the top drawer was a row of expensive watches- each one signifying a memorable moment in his and Tony’s world. They were graduation gifts, birthday gifts-  _ apology  _ gifts. He hardly wore them, his stomach heavy each time he allowed one to adorn his wrist- and today, he passed over them with a churning stomach and instead grabbed his suit watch. It wasn’t any less glamorous or expensive, but at least he knew this one to be made by Tony’s hands; not bought. 

It curled snugly and perfectly around his wrist, like it  _ belonged  _ there. Like it was made  _ specifically  _ for him. Which, it was. But just to acknowledge that? It made him light headed. 

This was the last gift he received from Tony; arguably the most meaningful.

His room is just as bare as he remembers when he steps out of the closet, all of his childhood collections tucked away in his old bedroom in May’s apartment. By now, the boxes were sure to have accumulated a thick layer of dust, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw any of it away. He knew it was silly, to be attached to inanimate objects, but they were his childhood. A representation of his innocence. 

Getting ready for the day, he attempts not to let his mind wander or linger on specific thoughts. But as he laces his shoes up, his brain takes the liberty to divert it’s attention and before Peter can stop himself, he’s thinking back to Fury and his offer; something he promised to never think about again. 

Why was he suddenly so concerned about Peter and who he cared for? Fury of all people should know Tony wasn’t dangerous, at least to those he cared for, and Peter likes to think that he may just be one of those people. What difference did today make from last month? Or the month before that? Why  _ now? _

He couldn’t figure it out, and it was bugging him.

Feeling the thoughts arise a growing ache between his eyebrows, Peter huffs and sits back on his bed. His fingers massage his temple, trailing down across his nose to brush across his parted lips and feel the dewy exhalation ghost across the pads of his fingers. He felt funny today, like something was going to happen- something he couldn’t control, and no matter how hard he tries his body isn’t satisfied with any answer he offers.

_ Tap Tap Tap _

His eyes, which he hadn’t realized slid shut, pops open and he looks warily towards his door- afraid Fury has come back with a reproach. “Yeah?” he calls out, hoping his voice sounded level and  _ not  _ distracted. 

“Peter?” a familiarly low pitched voice murmurs, vibrating through the wood. Peter’s stomach clenchs tightly when he recalls his sluggish memories from last night; how Tony’s salty sweat and coffee scented breath cocooned him in a bubble of comfort with his arms securely enclosed around his body. 

Peter’s never liked being touched- but if it  _ always  _ felt like last night, he was worried how quickly he could grow accustomed to it. 

Shifting on his bed and fluffing his hair despite Tony not being able to actually see him, Peter nods. Quickly realizing his mistake, he scrambles to his feet and quickly goes to his closet to grab a shirt. “Uh- just a second. I have to get dressed.”

“I’ll wait,” his roguish voice responds, muffled by the wood but amplified by Peter’s rabbiting heart. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Nah,” he calls out, scrambling to pull his shirt over his head which thoroughly upsets the perfect nest of fluffed hair he’d perfected. With the shirt pulled down and across his chest, blocking the phantom scar he could feel lingering across his pale skin, he feels safe. “I got up an hour ago- I’ve been putting off getting dressed.” he blushed, head ducking, unaware of why he was offering this information to Tony who certainly didn’t ask.

“Ah, a relatable procrastination.” 

Peter, nearing hyperventilating by the casual direction of conversation, flings the door open and smiles with a breathless hitch halting his attempt at appearing unfazed. Tony takes in his disheveled appearance with an attentiveness that makes Peter’s skin alight with a warm tingle, and he readjusts the collar of his blue shirt that slid a little too far to the left and reveals a portion of his clavicle. 

“Uh- hi?”

Tony smiles, eyes crinkling and that knot in Peter’s gut returns. “Hi,” he parrots back, smile amused. His right arm is leaned on the doorway above Peter, wearing plain jeans and a AC/DC t-shirt with the black material hugging his biceps. Peter recalls being boxed in those arms, and his toes curl. “I just wanted to apologize, for last night. I intervened when I had no right to, and I- uh, I invaded your personal bubble. I didn’t intend the direction of our evening to take that exact course, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Or if my comments in the gym bothered you- they were inappropriate,”

As Tony rambles on, clearly worried and a tad bit disturbed by his obvious lack of regard for Peter’s personal space, Peter feels his amusement growing. It was amusing, seeing Tony so unhinged and out of his element. “You don’t apologize much, do you?” he teases, teeth making an appearance as he offers a flashed grin and breathy laugh. Tony’s mouth clamps shut, flustered. “I didn’t mind it, honestly. If i would have had a problem, Mr. Stark, I would have told you. I’ve dealt with worse things than being carried to bed.”

Tony scratches at the back of his neck and Peter shifts on his feet, both catching the others' unintentional movement before their eyes lock. “I had no right,” he says, and the guilt invades his eyes; unrightfully claims the pupil for its own and there, swimming in Tony’s warm brown eyes, is a sorrow and pain Peter feels all too well but can never vocally acknowledge. It’s a pain not rightfully their’s, yet they shoulder anyway and Peter  _ hates  _ that it’s directed at him. A confliction of right and wrong waging a war on Tony’s actions regarding the stupid spider boy who has hurt him unintentionally and indirectly. 

Peter’s brows furrow and he shifts an inch closer, on instinct: subconsciously chasing the scent of Tony’s cologne. “I didn’t mind it,” he repeats it, forcing his voice to be hard and hopefully sure. On his tongue, Tony’s name dances, yet he swallows it back- not ready to let that secret out just yet. “Thank you, for the pizza-  _ and  _ returning me to bed, Mr. Stark. I appreciate it.”

A scratch at his beard and Tony nods- not relenting to Peter’s acceptance but also not pushing the subject for fear of what discussion may surface. It seems he wasn’t ready to discuss it just quite yet, either. “You’ll tell me?” he asks, “If I over step in any way? I-I don't want to make you uncomfortable in your own home, Pete.”

Oh, if only Tony knew last night was the first night he’s truly felt welcome and wanted here, in this cold little room, with the impression of Tony still left on Peter’s warm skin. “Of course.”

Here, this close, Peter can smell the motor-oil and singed wires clinging to Tony’s body like a second scent; contending only with the faint cleanliness of soap and water and a spritz of Tony’s spicy cologne. He can feel each breath breeze through Tony’s parted lips; feel how each exhalation rattles through his chest and eases Peter’s queasiness. It’s the closest they’ve been with both fully conscious, yet Peter wants to be  _ closer.  _

He shifts an inch forward, just an  _ inch,  _ and he hears Tony’s breath hitch in his throat- feels how the man immediately tenses at the realization of their close proximity. In a painfully drawn out second, Tony’s hand lifts and hovers just a hair's breadth away from Peter’s cheek- so close he can feel each twitch of Tony’s calloused fingers.

They both remain  _ silent _ .

Heartbeat thumping in his ears, Peter holds his breath, licking at his suddenly dry lips. Tony watches him do it, staring at his mouth. When their eyes meet, Tony’s breath returns in a rush and he inhales deeply then  _ finally  _ brings his hand down to cup Peter’s cheek.

The difference between their body heats is a stark contrast: like fire meeting ice and with a sigh, Peter tips his head more fully into Tony’s cupped hand and allows his hot palm to warm his entire body through that single connection. 

Fingers appear at the back of his neck, testingly petting the loose curls there, and Peter has to actively suppress the urge to moan at the simple touch as it elicits a full body-reaction and has his toes curling while simultaneously causing him to combust in flames. Across his skin, he can feel the flames licking and lapping in a claiming manner; scorching his every nerve until his blood is singing with Tony’s very name. Chanting with the mantra of  _ more more more.  _

He’s not aware of the sudden shift, of why the air between their bodies was crackling with the electricity that surely belonged in a thunderstorm and not trapped in the enclosed space of Peter’s small room. But he also doesn’t wish it to end. If anything, he craves more- wants to feel the press of Tony’s skin across his entire body.

And it’s that that finally knocks him back into reality and away from the edge of temptation Tony surely wasn’t entertaining. This was a simple caress between a mentor and his protege; nothing more needs to be bled into the touch or defiled by Peter’s foul thoughts. 

_ He swears Tony looks as fazed as him- a glimmer in his eye, not as unhinged but maybe partially scathed. _

He kicks himself in the ass for getting lost in his own thoughts, his own internal cravings, yet his fingers twitch forward on their own accord and just before they reach their destination realization dawns on Tony’s face.

The conflicted look returns, and suddenly aware of the close proximity that an elapsed second has allowed them- of his hand engulfing half of Peter’s face with his thumb dangerously close to caressing the boys bottom lip, Tony pulls back and sucks in a deep breath with his shaking hand brushing through his unfairly tamed hair. “Right, well, breakfast?” his voice is low and raspy; enclosed with something raw and primitive Peter can’t quite wrap his mind around. 

_ Was Tony just as affected as he was? Was he imagining it? _

For the seconds that follow, he holds agonizingly still; afraid the simplest of movements would erase the lingering touch of Tony’s hand on his skin. He swallows hard, thick, and nods. “Y-Yeah. I’ll meet you down there.” his response is shaky and squeaky, illuminating his most embarrassing qualities. 

His nerves are reawakened by Tony’s detachment as the man pulls himself away with disgust curling his lip, and he feels as the disgust transfers from Tony to him- disgust for  _ himself _ . “Okay,” 

Tony slips from his grasp before Peter can even have a moment to relish or appreciate the knowledge of his attention, and before he has the opportunity to say more Tony spins on his heel and leaves as abruptly as he arrived.

\-----

It’s the memory of Tony’s touch and his warmth that chases away his sudden coldness. The entire morning he’s avoided and completely ignored Peter; taking it so far as to leave the dining room table as soon as Peter walks in and instead eats his bowl of oatmeal standing in the doorway, offering the perfect escape. 

When they all group together in the gym to run a few practice sessions, with Steve, Tony and Peter all focused in the center so they can become re-acquainted with each others fighting style and skills, Tony  _ intentionally  _ darts after Steve at every given opportunity even when he and Steve were supposed to be joining forces to take down Peter, who was swinging rafter to rafter. 

Of course, he can understand it maybe a little. Tony  _ not  _ wanting to create a scene where he takes down and  _ hurts  _ Peter, given what’s happened- but it was also necessary to ensure they were ready for tomorrow. 

It’s frustrating; being treated like a child. Peter was better after four days- cleared for field work after the first week. He could fight, and did a damn good job. The fact that Tony still avoided him at all costs, however, was really starting to annoy him and in an effort to up his antics and dart directly for Tony, Steve takes his bait- his distraction, and launches his shield at Peter.

Peter slams back into the mat, knocked breathless from the force at which the shield hits him with, and watches as it curves mid-air just to retreat back to the safety of Steve’s hand. For a startled second, he forgets to breath- forgets how to properly kick his lungs into gear, then he’s made aware of all the eyes on him and, to not freak them out, he sticks out a thumb to show he was fine. 

Above him, in the rafters, Tony was hovering; panicky eyes focused on Peter’s body and for some odd reason, he could feel that strange emotion flood his body and filled with the sudden need to reassure them- _ him _ that he’s okay, he kicks up off the ground and temporarily places a steadying hand on his chest to help coarse his lungs back into working order. 

Up there, Tony seems untouchable- so far out of reach with sorrow an impenetrable aura. Peter doesn’t like it: doesn’t like how out of place and alone he looks up there; larger than life, yet smothered by the confinements of a too-tiny room. 

Before any of them can ask if he’s okay, he sticks a web to a section of the ceiling and flings himself up to the rafters, intending on keeping the fight going but the air has shifted. Where everyone had once been life-filled and full of excitement at the prospect of working together again, as a team, the air was now stifled and tense. Nobody dared move.

“Should we run it again?” Peter asks, attempting to break the tension and it doesn’t go over his head how wheezy his voice sounds as he struggles to regain a normal breathing pattern. His sternum is  _ definitely  _ bruised, yet he doesn’t even notice the pain.

Nat, from below him, shakes her head; waves of her hair red hair slipping from her unkempt bun and framing her red, blotchy face. “I think we’re good today, Pete.”

They don’t have to say it, but he knows his mishap with Steve’s shield was the reason for the end of their practice. All because traumatizing memories resurfaced. 

Rolling his eyes, Peter lets go of the rafter he clung to and free-falls to the ground, landing on the padded mats with a silent thud. 

Intentionally avoiding Tony, who carefully lowered himself to the ground just beside Peter; the repulsors on his boots pulsating the air around them with a faint warmth, Peter slips off his web shooters and slides them into the deep voids of his gym shorts. 

He hears the near silent march of Tony’s nano-bots racing back into his watch- given that he didn’t wear his full suit today, and just simply adorned his boots and repulsors. “Show off,” Tony mumbles, just childish enough that it elicits a grin from Peter- breaking through the thin sheen of exasperation. 

_ Peter wasn’t a doll. He could take hits. _

If Tony could tease about something so heavy just to break the ice and make Peter feel a smidge better, why couldn’t they all? Why couldn’t Peter?

“We could beat him,” Peter says matter of factly, slicking back his hair and cringing at how sweaty and greasy it already was, despite his earlier shower. “Leave him in the dust, really.”

Tony’s eyes darken a fraction, a balance between something dark and forbidden, and pleasure. He  _ liked  _ the idea of Peter showing off with him- perhaps  _ for  _ him. “A man has to keep his secrets,” he says, confusing Peter until Tony steps forward and, with his lips inches from Peter’s ear, whispers; “I’m not ready for them to learn you’re my secret weapon,” 

He completely derails Peter; tears apart the boys advancing walls and parts his heart to whisper those words directly to the pulsating lifeline, and he doesn’t even understand just how fazed Peter is. He hovers for a second, then pulls away- making it across the gym before Peter’s grasped enough common sense to register  _ what  _ the fuck just happened. 

By then, it was too late, and he watches as Tony’s back disappears through the door. Something that commonly happens, apparently. Tony doing something bold and jarring, then leaving before Peter can ask him  _ what the fuck.  _

Steve slaps him on the shoulder and smiles with a sympathetic, all too knowing look. “Great workout today. Don’t forget to turn in early tonight. We need you well rested for tomorrow.”

Peter shrugs from beneath his hand and nods, the minor movement sending pulses of discomfort through his chest. He breathes through the pain, so as to not worry cap. “Yes sir,” he didn’t like being called out like that so directly; or, well, not  _ exactly  _ directly, but he didn’t like that Steve could see his inner turmoil and had the  _ audacity  _ to appear sympathetic about it.

Like Peter didn’t already know how  _ fucked  _ he was. 

  
  



	5. Chapter 4: You do not stand now, human.

The thundering winds of the lowering Quinjet part Peter’s hair, whipping the shortened strands across his face and pressing the material of his suit impossibly tighter against his skin; adhering to his body as if it were attempting to melt beneath the surface and twine with his bones- yet he doesn’t lose focus. He holds on tighter to the oh-fuck-me bar Tony installed after Sam was nearly hurdled out of the Jet after a freak accident of losing his footing- a premature launch that would have resulted in his imminent splatter across New Yorks pavement. Below him, the calmer wind rattles through the baring trees like creaking bones; rising for just a moment as if it could sense their presence and was offering a responding call. 

_ Go on,  _ he imagines the wind saying,  _ I’ll keep watch.  _

The warehouse grows closer, a mere blip to even his heightened eyes that strained to make out the silhouette of the building- and just beyond his natural eyesight he could see the reflecting glimmer of water, dawn yet to break out across the horizon and bring with it another day with a sky full of colors. The edge of the jet is beneath his impatient heels, though he’s yet to be granted permission to jump yet. To launch himself off the ship and hurdle towards what was undoubtedly a dangerous area to enter solo. 

So, he swallows back his impatience, ignores the thrumming in his blood as the adrenaline pants to his thundering heart, and turns his head to instead focus on Tony and Steve. The latter is leant against the wall, so close to the edge one wrong jostle of the plane would send him overboard. His blonde hair was windswept and ruffled; highlighting an imperfection yet, in a moment of betrayal, Peter realized it entirely fit Steve’s face. The rumpled sort of look, with disheveled hair, was arguably more noticeably suited for his strong jaw than his usual trademark sweep back with gel loosely holding the strands down and into submission. 

At a sudden tilt of the jet, which impressively doesn’t faze Steve, Peter briefly wonders if a fall from this height would kill him? Or would Steve simply leave a human-sized dent in the concrete below and let, for generations to come, people know exactly who stood in that spot all those years ago?

Would Peter ever leave that same impression? 

Tony is just behind him, casually standing with nothing to hold on to for support with his hands bare but his chest reflecting the low light in the open cargo; his red suit looking daunting yet pristine. In his hand he held a tablet, eyes squinted down at the dimmed screen with concentration pulling his brows down over tired brown eyes. It was only five in the morning, and it was arguably too early to start their day but at Fury’s insistence, they were all pulled from their beds and thrust into the cold morning air. 

Above them, a storm cloud rumbles and with it’s call- it promises rain.

Suppressing a shiver at the tingled warning chasing down his spine- he  _ hates  _ rain- Peter points down below them as the shipping port finally comes into view; hundreds of docked ships hovering just beyond their eye-sight with the midnight sea hindering their visibility. “We’re almost there. Just a little to the left, Bucky,” he instructs, watching as the jet smoothly canteens in the direction of his instructions and with a barely felt shudder- they come to a halt. 

Tony grunts and throws his tablet down on the ground, rolling his shoulders in the impossibly limited suit. “Let’s get this show on the road.” It was the first thing he’s said all morning, yet it was progress and positive progress at that. Peter grins. 

He was  _ elated  _ to be part of Tony’s first mission back. 

Steve mimics Tony and rolls his shoulders, his movements constricted beneath his suit but not entirely limited like Tony’s. “I’ll meet you two down there. I’m going to scoop out the surrounding area- let’s meet back up in the middle in ten. Keep your comms on,” 

Tony smirks, confidence beaming in his comforting eyes, yet beneath that mask Peter can see the reserved hesitation. He wasn’t as thrilled, or prepared, to be back as he let on. “Will do, Cap. Give up a school-girl holler if anyone tugs at your skirt, k?”

Steve rolls his eyes, Peter stays intently focused on Tony, trying to gauge the man and see if behind his fear held even a glimmer of excitement. Peter could barely contain his- prepared to rush head on in the world with Tony by his side to prove to the man how compatible they still were. How, despite months enveloping their cohabited existence, their hearts and minds never forgot one another. Even now, Peter can feel himself drawn to Tony by invisible forces, yet the man seems to be entirely unfazed by everything. Perfectly emotionless; an exemplary attempt at appearing as neutral as one possibly could be. 

Tony huffs out a laugh, repulsor clad hands landing on Peter’s shoulder’s in a heavy, comforting weight that makes his belly swoop and his blood thrill. “What do you say, Spidey? Should we let Cap run off and play hero? Think you can handle me alone that long?” It was meant to come off as teasing and humorous, both factors playing into the delivery of his speech; yet a smidge of fear filtered into it and Peter saw there, in the carefully constructed mask, a crack. An imperfection that oozed with nerves and genuine fear.

Tony truly didn’t know how smitten Peter was, did he? Would he ever? Would he like it- “Of course, Sir,” he rushes, the compliant part of him rendering his body immoble in an attempt to soothe Tony’s nerves and please him- to fix what invisible damage lay beneath the surface. Peter smiles, tongue trekking across his bottom lip in a nervous habit- all thankfully hidden beneath his mask yet he can still feel Tony's heavy gaze on his chin. “It might rain- are you sure you can handle a wet spider, sir?” Peter’s cheeks reddened as soon as he finished his sentence, only now realizing how suggestive it truly sounded. He wanted to retract it immediately, to erase the pleasantly startled look on Tony’s face and the equally pleasing quiet, soft- “Oh,” that followed.

“I-uh, I-I didn’t mean that, sir. I-”

“There’s that blush again,”

“You can’t possibly know that. I’m wearing a mask,”

“No?” Tony questions so quietly it hurts. He shifts forward, the close angle adding more weight to Peter’s shoulders as Tony presses down just a  _ smidge _ harder, prompting Peter’s shoulders to tense beneath the touch to keep them both centered, despite his core heating so dangerously and threatening to dissolve them both. “I know you, Peter-” the words are whispered directly in his ear, but he’s deprived of the experience of Tony’s warm breath, his damned mask hindering the faintest touch of lips across the material.

His heart somersaults in his chest, a reaction he’s quickly linked to anything Tony does and not a worrisome medical condition, and he gulps. “Are you sure about that, sir?”

“You’re a pain in the ass, Stark. Quit fucking with the kid and let’s go.” 

It’s enough of a distradiction on Tony’s part, with the man startling back at the memory of another person being present, that Peter can suck in a greedy breath of air and allow his trembling body a second to adjust to the intoxicating intrusion of Tony’s proximity- of his borderline flirtatious words. “Let’s go.” Peter finally breathes before Tony can retort, the anticipation too much now to ignore and without a second glance back, he takes a running start and  _ leaps.  _ Nothing but air surrounds him, caressing his body and pulling it in every direction with a thrilling sense of doom hovering just out of reach. 

~~~

Though the comms are of the highest quality, even Tony couldn’t combat the effects of unforeseeable circumstances and reactions Peter’s senses may have. Pinging off of each metal container was a high-wave frequency that reflected towards the only energy source it could locate without straining it’s sources; Peter’s suit. Initially, it wasn’t noticed as he crept along a wall, dirt and mud dredging up his calves to stain his red and blue material with the black sludge he kept slipping and sliding in. 

He could hear Tony breathing through the crystal-clean speakers; pick up on each rattled inhalation and allow it to reverberate through his body like Tony was standing next to him- a touch away, a  _ breath  _ away. He could hear the squelching of Steve’s shoes, too, as the man did recon around the area in search of surrounding threats they weren’t aware of. And if he really focused, in real life, and not through the comms; he could hear the low hum of Tony’s repulsors as the man hovered a hundred feet off the ground- working with Friday to scan the area for anything that would call for their immediate worry. 

But then, it bled into the silence with such stealthiness Peter originally believed it to be an internal screeching from a quiet migraine only now making itself known. Across every inch of his skin, he could feel the sting of iron scraping across iron- increasing the volume in his head until he felt like he may just explode. 

“Nothing on my end-” Tony said, and his voice was amplified but disfigured, lowered in pitch with his words staticky and tinted with something almost demonic, in a way. “Anything, Cap?”

The world tilted on its axis and Peter slanted towards the dock, fingers leaving imprints of collected dew as he brushed away the collected water and slowly lowered himself to a crouch, attempting to maintain a silence so as to not worry the others. 

His breathing was shallow and so many words wanted to tumble out of his mouth, words of warning- of apologies, of questions. Yet they stubbornly stuck to his tongue and refused to part from his trembling lips as the volume increased. 

Steve remained unfazed. “No, nothing here. Let’s circle around and meet back up in the middle.”

“I-” Peter croaked, and that was a mistake. Tears sprung to his eyes, bringing with it an increased pressure that shoved at his skull in an attempt to expand it outwards. 

“Sounds good,” Tony said, both he and Steve unaware of Peter’s attempt at speaking. “Come back to Daddy so we can go on our play date. Wouldn’t want to leave our little aliens alone and expectant, do we?”

“Let’s keep the comms concise, Tony. I don’t want to hear you feed into your creepy fetishes and I'm sure Peter doesn’t either, right Pete?”

It was the first time he was directly acknowledged since his bout of silence, and even now he couldn’t force out a sound past the sudden bout of dizziness. A second spun into three, and slowly evolved into a minute. “Pete?” Tony sounded positively  _ worried.  _ For one glorifying second, a warm sort of sedate feeling starts to rise in Peter’s chest, easily combating the nails-on-a-chalk-board shit show and he gasps in a deep breath. 

“I- the ships, they’re interfering with the comms and I-I-it  _ hurts,” _ it tumbled out of his mouth like a sob, boarding pathetic but with the pain increasing he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

In the distance, he heard Tony’s repulsors whirr to life as they were kicked up in speed. “Just stay where you’re alright, okay? Can you do that for me, Peter? We’ll get you all fixed up,”

However, now addressed with a request to stay put, Peter decides the opposite is probably the best and he starts to move- seeking out an area where the ships won't triangulate the frequency and scramble his comms. 

Believing the old rustic ship abandoned just meters from the dock to be his safe haven, Peter scrambled towards it and walks a bit unsteadily up the metal ramp and towards the rustic deck; finding a comforting position with his back pressed against the heavy iron door that was so rusted he wasn’t sure it could even open anymore. 

Here, the sound was miraculously dimmed to a lower drawl and he decided he could manage this level. “All good here,” he gritted out, willing the throbbing in his temple to decrease in violence so he could at least attempt to focus on the task at hand, given that he’s already wasted a good twenty minutes. 

Tony lands in front of him not even a second later, anxiety coercing his movements as he stalks a few steps closer to Peter and pauses just shy of their toes touching. Peter forces a smile, noting how his headache was now just a dull throb. “You sure? We can wrap up right now and Steve can come back la-”

“No,” Peter shakes his head, immediately regretting it when stars dot his vision but he bites down on his tongue to keep from yelping in pain. “I’m good to go. Ready, Steve?” Tony still doesn’t look convinced. He’s watching Peter like he expects the boy to keel over and die right here, right now. Peter’s not sure that he’s far off from doing just that. 

He shuffles that extra inch forward, seeking the warmth of Tony’s body even if all he was granted in turn was the chill gliding off his suit, and lifts a hand up to Tony’s shoulder-  _ needing  _ to touch, mimicking the man's earlier touch. Even through the suit, he imagines he can feel Tony’s muscles jump and dance beneath his cold fingers and he grins, genuinely. “I promise, I’m fine.” This was his first time initiating the contact. 

Just as he says that, a red glimmer from the corner of his eye catches his attention and when he turns to focus on it, it’s too late, even for his heightened senses. 

“Mr. Stark!” The name rips from Peter’s lips as his hands desperately attempt to clutch at Tony’s smooth canvas, luring him back towards safe terrains but the blast hit him too directly and before he can even pray that Tony land’s unfazed, the man is hurled thirty feet away and slamming into the side of a boat that rocks and groans at the sudden impact; Tony’s body lodging into the bent steel. 

~~~

It wasn’t enough. 

With hunter-like instincts, the masked alien stalks forward; slivers of moon parting through the grated wall and allowing enough light in to illuminate the rusted space. Peter’s suit was ripped to shreds, ushering red splotches on pale skin but he was better off than what he should be. He couldn’t hear Steve anymore; the reassuring murmur as the man attempted to drag Tony back towards the land of the living, now replaced with a muted thrum of Peter’s racing heart. 

They were caught off gaurd- he wanted to laugh at the thought because Iron-fucking-man was caught off gaurd and maybe they were right. Maybe Tony wasn’t cut out for this line of work anymore; maybe he was too emotionally wrapped up in his own god-damn mind and emotions to really dictate his actions because, as it seems, with Peter in his presence Tony can never think or act accordingly. He was always distracted. 

“Steve?” Peter hisses, pressing himself closer to the shell of the ship. Silence greets his vocal request and with a bitter laugh, Peter folds into a crouch and rolls from behind the wall, preparing himself for the worse. He was tired of hiding and he just needed to get to Tony. Needed to know that he was okay. 

He lowers himself into the cabin of the ship, noting how it shifts and groans beneath his weight- struggling to adjust to the sudden pressure after spending years unbothered, untouched. Behind him, he can hear the heavy breathing of a faceless alien- now directing their attention towards Peter’s direction as the floorboard creaks in betrayal.

He tries not to hesitate, a plan working itself out in his mind but before he can even formulate it properly, he’s being grabbed by the back of his neck and thrown towards a wall. He hit it with a shudder, his entire body folding forward as his spine took the brunt of the hit. Needles prickle across his body; the pain delving beneath the surface to penetrate his skin and grind across his exposed nerves- the sensation simultaneous to the cracking of his skull across a rotted shelf. He lets out a startled cry, fireworks exploding in his vision. 

“You are weak,” the rasped voice murmurs, alienated by the thick accent not from this earth. “Is that why my father aimed to destroy your planet? To make your kind extinct- to save you from yourselves?”

Like that day, so many months ago, Peter can feel blood coating his tongue and he bites down on the sand, allowing the texture to drag him back towards reality and not the comforting darkness of nothing. It was tempting- alluring with black swimming in and out of his vision, pupils dilating and constricting with no light source tampering the effects of an obvious concussion. “Your father aimed for our extinction because he knew us to be his only weakness. Remind me again where he lies and where I stand?”

“You do not stand now, human!” With a directed stomp, the alien digs the heel of it’s boat into Peter’s thigh- seething as it hunches over him. “My father will one day walk your earth again- heed my warning.”

Peter pauses to run a pink-tinted tongue across his lips, leaving smudges of red there. “Your father is dead.”

With an anguished, pissed off cry- the alien lifts it’s gun illuminating with red, hot power- and aims it directly at Peter’s chest. It was the same one that hit Tony, that malfunctioned his suit and left a crater in his chest plate. The same one that knocked him unconscious and left him at Steve’s mercy as the man fought off a horde of alien’s surrounding the invincible Iron-man unconscious and suspended in the side of a boat with the conformed metal acting as restraints to hold him up. 

It was a powerful gun, arguably the most powerful Peter has ever come across, and yet it sits strapped to a scared little girl hidden beneath layers of tarnished armor.

And yet, he felt no fear. Openly accepting his death,  _ willing,  _ even. 

But- maybe  _ not.  _ He’s not ready to die just yet. 

She hesitates with her finger on the trigger, taking a fraction of a step back and at the partial opportunity, Peter kicks a leg out and sweeps her feet from beneath her body. She falls in a heap of ungraceful limbs and clanking weapons, and by the time she has regained her footing Peter is already standing above her, his fists clenching as he drops into a defensive stance with his knees spread and elbows held up; his mask still hiding his face. The main goal now slams into his temple with shouted feverance. 

_ Kill her. Kill her. Kill her. _

Taking an alien's life was no longer a foerign concept to him, the evidence laid out in the bodies discarded around the ship from his short encounter with them, numerous tied down with webs and unconscious, but it made it no less easy. Especially when, gazing at him from across the cabin with the rise and fall of her chest rapid- stood an alien with purple eyes so humanlike it was impossible to decipher reality from fantasy with her pinning him on the spot, almost daring him to advance. 

Unlike her, however, Peter knows all too intimately how it feels to be torn apart by the blast of a centralized bullet hot with power, and he wishes to not see her suffer the same fate- knowing that to be Tony’s exact goal once he regains consciousness. Even if it is deserved. By his feet, her gun lay. “Go, warn them of your impending demise. Let them know we will be back- and we will stop at nothing to kill you all. You made a mistake attacking earth- clearly your father taught you nothing”

She looks stunned, even with more than half of her face still hidden behind a mask. “Your compassion will be the reason for your death. Kill me now or I swear to it I will come back and kill you.”

“Then so be it. Leave before I change my mind.”

She eyes the gun on the floor, calculating her chances of successfully retrieving it before Peter can stop her. A moment's pause, a blink- and then she’s gone. 

He worries about where she’s disappeared to- how aliens like her can deal with complex emotions like anger and revenge- did she understand disappointment? Compassion? Did she know the depth of betrayal Peter just willingly subjected himself to by letting her go? Could she understand how much Tony would hate him- claim him to be weak once he realizes Peter is too pathetic to kill even a simple little alien girl? 

Then, a separate thought lingers in his mind- overpowering his fear of a lurking shadow potentially taking him out. 

_ Is Tony alright? _

  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 5: Would you like me to stay?

_ Be okay. Be alive.  _

They were the only thoughts, the only thing taking up precedence in Peter’s mind as he wore a line in the shag carpet beneath his feet, willing Tony to feel his worry and stubbornness and just  _ fucking listen.  _ Peter couldn’t lose him, not now- not so soon, surely not in a way that was so absurdly unheroic. Tony deserved… he deserved to die with someone else infiltrating his last memory; mind not tainted by a panicky little child who gave in to the slightest impression of panic and crumbled into a mess of hysteria. 

Through the closed doors Peter can hear the hushed whispering of conjoined voices, all molding together to create a steady stream of cottony words he couldn’t  _ quite  _ hear but that was entirely to blame on the shock, and not a malfunction of his selective talents. 

In flickers and flashes, Tony’s bloody face pops into Peter’s mind and he has to keep himself moving to just keep his anxiety at bay, to pace away the awful feeling in his stomach and the heavy sense of dread and loss. Tony wasn’t dead yet- he wasn’t. 

_ But he could be.  _

Peter snatches the cup of water from Nat’s hand when the woman appears before him, guzzling the cold liquid in three gulps just to give his shaking hands something to do but all the water did was weigh on his stomach and increase his nausea. 

“He’ll be fine,” Nat assures him, hand moving to splay on his back but Peter’s already moving again, already pacing, and her touch feels a galaxy away from his reach. 

“You didn’t see him, Nat,” Peter whispers, horror bleeding into his movements as he stills and sways, the twitch of his fingers quickly hidden as he brushes them through his mangled hair; knotted from sweat and rain. 

_ Steve’s arms hook under Tony’s, Peter moving to grab the mans feet and they both pause once Tony is suspended between their two bodies to readjust their grip before they are moving towards the jet, Steve feeding grunted instructions to Bucky that the man was just as quickly relaying back to Dr. Cho at the tower.  _

_ Somewhere between step fifteen and twenty, Tony’s face plate pops open with a grinding hiss and the sight sends a hard jolt through Peter, as alarming as a streak of lightning across the sky during a battle. Tony’s face was ashen: deep wrinkles feeding into a proper depiction of his age and crimson was a stark contrast oozing from between Tony’s parted blue lips.  _ No. God, please- no.  _ “Is he breathing?”  _

_ “I don’t know. His suit won't budge. I can’t get a proper reading of his pulse. Is he- can you hear his heartbeat?” _

_ Peter shakes his head no cause- god, he can’t even hear the thrum of his own heartbeat beyond the insistent screams inside his mind; begging Tony to just fucking breath. “Let me try.” _

_ For a moment, he fears his strength will fail him and he pauses to suck in a deep breath that sticks between his clavicles. Steve pauses with him, patient and expectant as Peter closes his eyes, focuses beyond the pathetic mantra inside his mind, and just  _ listens. 

_ Tony’s breath was as inaudible now as it had been all those months ago, on that dreaded night.  _

_ Together, he and Steve were panting so loudly it was hard to focus on anything beyond the noises they were immiting and the scraping of their feet across the graveled ground. So, in a moment of weakness, Peter  _ thinks  _ about wanting to touch Tony and his suit reacts to the natural urge; peeling back to reveal bony, pale fingers that shiver at the cold exposure of morning air.  _

_ The man doesn’t say anything- doesn’t question his motive or comment on how Peter easily shift’s Tony’s body so he can balance the man’s lower body weight in one hand- most of them often forget Peter can lift entire buses, and instead just silently watches as Peter hunches forward, a breath of anxiety clawing at his chapped lips, and cupped his hand over Tony’s face as if to catch his breath. To hide it away and save it for a rainy day.  _

_ The ghost of an exhalation sends a thrill of relief down Peter’s spine, but then it’s quickly overpowered by the urgency that races along his limbs, “He’s alive,” he whispers, “barely,” the latter was added for Steve’s benefit to hopefully relay the severity of the situation.  _

But it was the truth. Tony was barely alive. 

His heartbeat had been frantic and skittered beneath Peter’s palms as he focused on it the entire ride home with Tony draped across his lap- allowing the fluttering staccato to comfort him even if he knew it to be entirely wrong because  _ something  _ was better than  _ nothing.  _

And when they arrived here, Tony was whisked away and Peter was left alone on the landing pad, expected to find his way to his quarters and ready himself for a debriefing. He made it three feet in the direction of his room before he tucked tail and ran straight here- pacing outside the door of Tony’s bedroom for little more than an hour with no update or assurance of the man’s status. 

Nat must have seen something on his face- perhaps a poorly concealed reaction to the direction of his thoughts, because she steps forward again and lifts a hand to lightly cup Peter’s cheek.

“He  _ will  _ be fine,” she whispers fiercely; adamantly. “I promise.”

What did she know? Certainly not the future, and she held no right to make promises such as that but Peter holds it close to his heart regardless and nods. “He better be.”

~~~

After an entire day of no word, despite Peter attempting multiple times and taking up post outside Tony’s door, he finally retires to his bedroom with the knowledge that Tony  _ must  _ still be alive if so many people were still fusing over him- running it and out of his bedroom yet never pausing to offer the poor little spider boy the time of day. 

He had this ridiculous fantasy of rushing into the room and demanding answers- of being as aggressive and as authoritative as Tony, but it was just that- a fantasy. He was pathetic. 

Peter busies himself, tidying up his meticulous room- folding and refolding his clothes and rearranging the watches Tony gave him before he finds himself curled up on his bed, arm sandwiched beneath his head and pillow as he watches random youtube videos until he succumbs to the bone-deep exhaustion that slowly creeps over him and finally steals away his coherent thoughts. 

When he startles awake an unknown amount of hours later, Steve, Bruce, and Clint are gone- returning back to the nest to clean up the mess before they moved on to the next and Sam, Vision and Wanda are following Fury’s lead in another state. They had just left when Peter stumbled out of his bedroom bleary eyed and in rumpled clothing, the fresh morning light slicing at his still-tired eyes. 

And it was in-between bites of his cinnamon flavored oatmeal- an honest to god travesty on his taste buds but it was one of Tony’s favorite’s and Peter just needed that added comfort of somehow being closer to the man right now- that Pepper ventured into the room and propositioned him with the most absurd offer he’s ever been presented with. 

_ “I’m sorry,” Peter asks, spoon clinking against his bowl as he drops it back down into the milk-sodden oats and turns his gaze up to her, “I must have misheard you but did- are you  _ asking  _ me to bath Tony?” _

_ She  _ laughs  _ at his reaction- at the squeaky pitch of his voice and comical widening of his eyes. “You heard me correctly- he insisted we ask Bruce but it seems we just missed him and I- well, I’m not strong enough myself, now am I?” she laughs awkwardly, and Peter assumes the all-telling gesture over her body was supposed to illustrate her lack of strength and not the awkward reality that, even if she did acquire the physical strength necessary, she wasn’t emotionally reserved or stable enough to bath Tony when the man was still a fresh scar on her tattered heart.  _

_ “He’s alive?”  _

_ “Nobody’s told you?” she looks shocked.  _

_ Peter shakes his head. “No. I-I waited outside his door all day yesterday but, uh, nobody told me anything.” he hates how low his voice has gone- how in place of his raspy sleep-mused tone that could pass as casual, was now a thickening of emotions clogging his nasal passages and making it entirely hard to breath without feeling each breath rattle from between his lips.  _

_ “I’m sorry about that, Peter. Really-” for some reason, he believes her. Detects no malice in her voice, no ill-intentions behind the hand patting his shoulder. “Tony suffered a severe concussion and multiple bruised ribs. He claims to be capable of bathing himself but Dr. Cho insists he have someone present while Tony’s upper strength is limited.” _

_ “W-Why can’t he wait for Steve to return? Or Thor, he’s a good alternative.” _

_ Pepper narrows her eyes and shakes her head, lips pursed as she looks him over with an attentiveness that gives Peter the alarmed impression of being  _ seen.  _ “If it bothers you that much, I’m sure he can wait. He already insisted you wouldn’t want to do it. Sorry for bothering you. Enjoy your breakfast, Peter.” she offers a tight-lipped smile and turns around on her heels, preparing to walk away.  _

_ Then her words slam into Peter’s chest;  _ He already insisted you wouldn’t want to do it.  _ “Wait!” Peter lurches forward, hand grasping at the table like the feasible grip on the wood could halt Pepper’s movements. “Tony’s alright with it?” _

_ Again, her eyes narrow. “He agreed, yes.” _

_ It was a bad idea- a really bad fucking idea, but if Tony wasn’t protesting and was truly in need of help, who was Peter to deny him? And simply because of silly little emotions that were slowly becoming evident. It wasn’t Tony’s fault for Peter’s straying thoughts, he shouldn’t be the one punished.  _

_ Peter sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, brows furrowed in concentration. “Alright then, yes. I’ll do it.” _

_ Pepper grins in a way that makes Peter think she knew that would be his answer all along- it was a pleased sort of grin, like a plan coming to fruition. “Great. I’ll tell them to expect you within the next half an hour.” _

Which, stupidly, is what ends with Peter on his hands and knees, palm cupped beneath the steady flow of crystal-clear water as he fiddles with the handles, tweaking the cold just a smidge to increase the warmth until he could barely manage to keep his hand beneath the flowing water.  _ “Tony likes his baths hot,”  _ Pepper had warned him and although Peter didn’t know the extent of that warning, he fully intended to heed it. 

The splash of water as it filled the tub was soothingly familiar, and he allowed it to calm him down and ease his anxiety and worry as he rolls up his sleeves and grabs the tray of scented oils Pepper had given him, claiming they would not only soften the man’s skin but also soothe his angriest injuries. 

Out of the bunch, Peter grabs the lavender bottle and mixs a splash of it with the mint bottle and, satisfied with the heavenly smell permeating the air, he deposits the tray on the counter and returns to brushing his fingers through the water to mix the oil. 

His forearms rest on the edge of the tub, fingers gliding through the purple-tinted water, and despite knowing what was going to happen in only a few short minutes he couldn’t bring himself to focus on the extent of the situation. He’s seen men naked before- plenty of men. He’s touched penises and has enjoyed many of them, too. But something about bathing Tony seemed so.. Intimate. Too personal- something that needed to be reserved for a lover to experience, not a young protege with indecent thoughts. 

He also knew it wouldn’t have been asked of him unless it was absolutely necessary. He hasn’t seen Tony yet, hasn’t yet been granted the opportunity to gauge his wounds, but he believes Pepper was being intentionally vague and underplaying them just to not worry Peter. Tony had- he’d almost been  _ dead.  _

Nobody comes back from that with little more than a scratch, Peter knows from experience. 

With the water level in the spacious tub steadily climbing, Peter grabs a white wash cloth off of the counter, creases cutting across the incredibly soft material, and he dunks it beneath the water to dampen it before he rolls a dollop of Tony’s bottle soap across it, sandalwood filling the air with it’s thick, rich scent and twining perfectly with the softest hint of lavender and mint. 

When he realizes there’s nothing more for him to do and putting this off any longer will just be far more painful than it’s truly worth, he sets the towel on the edge of the tub, turns off the water and briskly walks out of the bathroom, across the living room and towards the closed bedroom door. The bathroom was on the penthouse floor, but not in Tony’s bedroom- the man’s bathroom apparently didn’t have a bathtub because he hated taking baths. 

_ Who knew.  _

Three curt knocks on the door and it suddenly opens, revealing a smiling Pepper. “The uh- the baths ready.” he feels far too formal now, even with his water-splashed clothes, and Pepper picks up on the uneven notes in his tone and smiles softly- perhaps a bit encouragingly, at him.

“We’ll be right out.”

Peter nods and takes that as his cue. He retreats back to the bathroom, nervous as fuck now, and sits on the edge of the toilet (with the lid closed) to fiddle with the hem of his shirt while he waited for them. 

To his surprise, Dr. Cho walks in first, followed by Pepper and Tony behind her but she was cutting off Peter’s view of the man. “I can not stress this enough, Peter- be  _ gentle  _ but do not be afraid to manhandle him if it warrants it. I forbid Tony from bathing by himself until his ribs heal, which means he will need quite a bit of help with certain things.” she didn’t clarify what those certain things were, but Peter’s warming cheeks highlighted the fact that she didn’t need to. “Are you sure you’re up for the task?”

Looking behind her shoulder at the top of Tony’s bowed head, Peter gulps and nods. “I am, and I won’t- uh, be afraid to manhandle him. I’ll be careful.”

She grins, all teeth. “Good- now, his chest is  _ severely  _ bruised. I shouldn’t have to tell you that bruises often look worse than they are, so don’t be shocked.”

“Okay.” his voice sounds as small as he feels. 

“He’ll need help unwrapping his binding- he doesn’t have a shirt on, so that limits one obstacle.” she purses her lips and turns to look at Pepper. “Anything else? There’s nothing, right? He’s all caught up?”

Pepper nods. “I think he’s good.” she rubs up Tony’s back and Peter catches the hitch in the man’s breathing, obviously from pain. “Would you like me to stay?”

“No, I think i’m good.”  _ He’s really not, but pretending was easier.  _

“Alright,” another smile, a repeat speech, and then they were finally walking out of the bathroom and leaving Peter and Tony alone. 

The air noticeably shifts- becomes lighter yet somehow remains just as tense as before, palpable yet not suffocating. 

Tony stands motionless, white bandages wound tightly around his chest and torso- hugging beneath his armpits and ending at his hip bones that stick out from beneath his loose sweatpants. The man is looking at the wall behind Peter, and Peter was struck with the uncomfortable realization and feeling that Tony looked  _ breakable.  _

Tired, with bags beneath his eyes and beard untrimmed with a five o’clock shadow dusting his cheeks and chin. His eyes are distant and void, and his chest rattles with each forced breath. Peter wants to cry, and he hates how useless he feels- how much blame he holds for not pulling Tony out of the way sooner. 

He knows, in an echoed effect, that this is what Tony must have felt like when Peter was recovering; hovering with worry but worthless to the process of healing. Peter had been broken, then. Fragile and feasible; much like Tony is now but the difference between the two was Peter wasn’t  _ breakable.  _ Sure, he took the hit- the brunt of the force, succumbed to the damage brought on by Tony’s miscalculated shot, yet he  _ healed _ at an incredibly fast rate. He was durable, and Tony was not. 

Peter was spry. Three days of recovery left not a single wound visible; the trace of that wretched night etched beneath his skin in a translucent webbing of haunting memories yet nothing physically damming. Tony would remember last night for weeks to come. Every breath, every movement; every single small jostled step. His skin would be painted with the bruises for days; weeks. And his ribs would forever hold the trauma like a balloon around them. 

Peter couldn’t change that. He couldn’t expedite the process; couldn’t project his healing abilities on to Tony for just a night, but if he could- he would in a heartbeat. 

Tony wasn’t laid out on the ground on some battlefield, either, like Peter had been. With snow and dirt clinging to his hair and blood turning the mud rustic. He was in a large, spacious bathroom, with a porcelain tub just beside him filled with warm, scented water and despite feeling anxious about his reactions and having not the slightest idea how to address Tony and ask if he needs help, he still finds comfort in the fact that Tony was still accepting to the entertainment Pepper and Dr. Cho has enforced on him. 

He hasn’t told Peter to fuck off just  _ yet.  _

So many things dance on the tip of his tongue- apologies, admittances, names- or, well, a specific name- yet all of them stay frozen to his taste-buds and refuse to part from his open mouth. Until, finally; “Do you want me to-” Peter’s hands make an abortive gesture at the wall of white bandages, the velcro end tucked just beneath Tony’s armpit. “Mr. Stark?”

He sighs at the name and his fingers twitch towards Peter, though he still isn’t looking at him. “Go ahead,”

Peter bites his lip, sharp- cuspid teeth enclosing the fleshy part of his lip and tugging until he can feel the faintest tear in his skin, threatening to bleed if he continues the mistreatment. Taking a tentative step forward, he grasps the velcro and undoes it with gentle fingers, pulling it free from Tony’s chest with the man’s arms awkwardly held up in an aborted t-pose, arms bent forward to almost enclose Peter in a hug. He begins to unwind it, revealing layer by layer the splatter of purple and the punch of black; all tied together by the faintest hue of yellow as the bruises begin to heal. The center, around his scar, was the worst- the deepest shade of purple with red and angry strike through the scar tissue. 

A sob catches in Peter’s throat and stubbornly clings there. His libido now isn’t a worry- he doesn’t understand how he could have ever thought it to be a genuine worry. This- now, was far beyond meager emotions. This was a representation between life and death, the evidence of how easily he could have lost Tony- how close he came, and rather than a suffocating sense of lust, he rather felt an overwhelming sadness. 

He allows Tony to control the pace and his movements, keeping as much respect as he possibly can with Peter’s fingers ghosting across every inch of skin that becomes visible to his sight. 

When the binding was undone, Peter throws it on the floor by the sink and watches as Tony’s hands fall to the waistband of his sweatpants and  _ that  _ causes a reaction. Peter turns with burning cheeks and tests the temperature of the water once again, sliding the towel he’d draped across the floor closer to the tub. He figures Tony can manage  _ that  _ task by himself- probably prefers it, anyway, so Peter retreats to the linen cabinet and grabs a new towel and only turns around when he hears the tell-tale slide of Tony’s body into the water. His long, pained but satisfied groan and the splashing of water singing directly to Peter’s heart. 

From this viewpoint, all Peter can see is Tony’s chest and up, the man’s arm draped over the edge of the tub with the entire length of his legs stretched out beneath the water. 

His heart is strangling him; reminding him once more of the intimacy of the moment, of how he’s wondered what Tony’s skin would look like wet; begging for Peter’s touch. And now, he no longer has to imagine. It’s here, before him; image extracted from the very canvas that surely belongs in an art museum and not here, suffocated, in a bathtub glistening with Peter’s touch in the form of purple mint bubbles.

He almost convinces himself to tuck tail and retreat, to get Pepper and insist she bathe the man despite their personal feelings because she  _ knows _ the flavor of Tony’s skin. Where Peter would be exploring uncharted territory, she would be visiting familiar terrains and wouldn’t that be more comfortable for Tony? To have familiar hands grazing his damaged body- hands of a lover, not a friend? 

But then he stills himself at his thoughts- reminds himself this isn’t about  _ him.  _ Tony’s  _ hurt _ and needs help. Peter’s thoughts are just a poor reflection on his selflessness. He can’t afford to be selfish, not right now. 

Taking a step closer with the towel clutched tightly to his chest, Peter gulps and pleads for his heart to slow down, noticing without commenting that Tony has yet to say anything further- his voice a scarce commodity when Peter could really use the reassurance at the moment. 

The water is fogged with heat and a little soap, yet clear enough for Peter to see  _ everything  _ beneath the purple-tinted waves. Though, in an attempt to disconnect, he relents that he can’t see  _ much  _ and trusts his mind would stick to that decision as he averts his eyes, awaiting instructions. 

He wants to say something, but nothing comes out. Nothing surfaces to his mind, helpful and comforting, so he instead bites his tongue. During his recovery, Tony didn’t say much. Peter could offer him the same luxury; being a silent companion. 

Setting the towel down on the sink, Peter grabs the previously abandoned cloth and stands with it in hand, awkwardly hovering at the edge of the tub and judging by the tense set of Tony’s shoulders, he didn't know what to do either- eyes carefully kept straight to avoid making eye contact with Peter. 

“Would you like me to help you wash, sir?” Peter asks, and he’s worried it was the wrong thing because Tony’s eyes stutter and immediately slam shut. This is what Peter is here for, isn’t it? Practically killing himself over, right?

A few seconds pass by in silence until Tony nods so softly Peter’s not convinced he doesn’t imagine it, until Tony lifts a simple hand, palm down. The words are silent, but the suggestion and permission are loud and clear. 

Peter has never seen- never  _ touched  _ Tony’s bare skin directly, even with permission. He’s thought of it, of course he has. But now that he’s faced with the opportunity, it’s not at all what he expected it to be- the situation far too heavy and tense to make anything of it. Despite this being for the sole purpose of nurturing, he knew once he left this room his skin would remember every single one of these touches; would cling to the memory of a conscious, pliant,  _ alive  _ Tony beneath his hands with the sharp, clean scent of soap filling the air. 

No matter how hard he tried, he knew he would never forget. 

As he thought of it now, though- the reason for Pepper insisting a second set of hands were necessary, he could see the logic. Tony couldn’t lift his arms, nor could he achieve enough mobility to wash anything beyond the region of his hips. His arms would probably be scrubbed clean, but beyond that his restrictions were obvious. 

As awkward as it might be to see Tony so completely naked; bare and arguably vulnerable, Peter could only imagine how it feels to the man to have his sore, aching body slowly unwind in a steaming hot tub; to have another person rub your every ache and pain away with the soft, slippery cloth gliding them along. The memories of yesterday would be wiped away and washed down the drain, and with it would go Peter’s sanity. 

Peter took Tony’s hand in his own, the flesh startling warm and so alive, a stark comparison to yesterday. He waits for a moment, waits for Tony to open his eyes and give him a dismissive look- to demand he leave and never return because he was  _ Tony fucking Stark and he didn’t need help.  _

Peter wonders, now, how much of his pride Tony was being forced to swallow to be bathed by someone. Surely it’s never happened to him before, in a setting such as this- with a  _ man,  _ and he can’t help but think that, to a man like Tony, it was a tarnish on his incredibly sound-structured ego. 

When none came- no looks of disgust or demanded departments, Peter takes a deep breath and lifts Tony’s large hand- much larger than his own, and drags the cloth along the length of every digit, erasing the crusted evidence of blood clinging like a ring around his nails. The hands that have seen so much- done so much- been  _ through  _ so much, that arguably controlled the entire world, and here they lay, cupped in Peter’s hand, subjected to his ministrations as he squeezes along every aching finger; lightly bending the joints before he was moving slowly up Tony’s palm, to his wrist, until the very same hand was just as slick as Peter’s.

For a moment, at the first initiation of contact, Peter had felt a sparkle of unease combust beneath his skin- a sense of unsureness sparking to live in his heart, but he shakes it off the moment he feels Tony’s hand go lax in his grip. Regardless of the man’s ego, it was obvious trusting Peter with this was a big moment and it just proves that Tony  _ needs  _ Peter. And right now? Peter can think of nothing better than to give him just what he needs- a touch of distraction, a gentle reminder of what calmness remains in the world. Peter thinks he’s capable of offering that, at the very least. 

He drags the cloth up the length of Tony’s other arm and down across his palm, repeating the ministrations to the other hand. 

“I’m- I’m going to wash your chest, sir. If you would like me to stop, just tell me.” 

He means it as a light warning, a sort of joke to pull Tony a little more into the present and out of the past- to erase the man’s memory of yesterday, of all the bad, and focus on the here and now. Of the drag of the cloth and the sound of Peter’s voice. It wasn’t much, but Peter likes to believe it’s something. 

“Be careful,” Tony whispers, and it  _ pains  _ Peter how quiet his voice is. How incredibly deconstructed it is compared to the usually cocky- self poised attitude that accompanied every single word uttered. Tony wasn’t himself right now, and Peter just needed to accept that. 

That liberty granted, Peter dips the cloth into the water by Tony’s hip- wincing when the back of his hand brushes against Tony’s side. He expects some sort of reaction- a lashing of some sort, but Tony remains perfectly still and peaceful. He applies more soap and lathers up Tony’s arm, circles his bicep slowly and being cautious to not lift it beyond Tony’s limitations, slowly builds the courage to move towards Tony’s chest. 

“Always,” it was a belated response, but Peter needs something to occupy his mouth- his attention. Taking a deep breath to still his nerves, he gently places the cloth on Tony’s broad chest and holds it there for three quiet, still moments before he begins to move the cloth again- being so incredibly careful to not hurt Tony. Across his chest, lightly over the bruises with his movements forced to a slowness he usually doesn’t harbor to save himself the embarrassment or to give Tony even the slightest impression or ammunition to guess how much Peter has wanted this, and how likely he was to be fazed by the memory in a later setting when he was alone. 

The muscles beneath his hands are hard and tense- swollen and quivering like a bow-string pulled taut and even the slightest miscalculated brush could set it off. Tony’s breathing grows deeper still and Peter draws the cloth around again, slowly. He looks at Tony’s face, tracking over the man’s closed eyelids and parted lips; noticing the absence of wrinkles that were now smoothed with relaxation. Taking that as permission, Peter swipes the cloth down below the water line, up Tony’s stomach and up his side, across to the other side and up, then under Tony’s chin- the access immediately given as Tony tilts his head back a little more to make it easier on Peter’s part. He scrubs down his neck, beneath his jaw, behind his ears and down the back of his neck with gentle fingers urging Tony to move forward. 

His shoulders are warm and wet under his fingertips as Tony leans forward, the strain obvious as he shifts with his back slightly arched and head ducked. 

Peter worries the position might be painful, but Tony doesn’t say anything and he decides to just make quick work. 

The intimacy he claimed to be lacking before, was evident now as he drug the sudsy cloth across Tony’s back; bruises and knots visibly littering across the tan canvas and Peter wants to kiss each and every one, to pay gentle attention to even the slightest scrap, but he also knew time was of the essence and Tony was probably in pain. 

He allows the washcloth to slip beneath the water as he grabs a small cup he’d set aside and fills it up. “Tilt your head back, eyes closed.” his voice was too low to be played off as being unfazed- too hitched and breathy, but Tony doesn’t seem to mind. He certainly doesn’t mention it; just simply tips his head back and allows Peter to dump the cup of water over his head. 

Peter swallows hard and blinks back too much emotion; rendered speechless by the sight of Tony, too fucking soft and gentle, carefree and trusting, with his elogonated neck dripping with white suds; lips slightly parted. He pauses for a moment with his hand still firmly yet cautiously pressed against the solid warmth of Tony’s chest, savoring the feel of Tony’s skin beneath his palm, radiating with heat- with the beat of his heart.

He wonders if after all this is done, if Tony will remember Peter’s place- remember his touch here, in this moment, and decide the boy was worthless-  _ disgusting.  _ He would be relegated to a minor position amongst the avengers, reduced to almost nothing in Tony’s daily life. He fears he isn’t valuable enough yet, or will he ever be, to Tony to make a difference or impression. He would forever be known as he is in this moment; eager and willing with too much enthusiasm bleeding into his touch. 

Tony must know Peter wants  _ this _ , in some unethical way. How pathetic he truly is. 

Focusing his bleary eyes on a scar across Tony’s torso, extending from his hip to just below his navel- evidence of his fight with Electro where the man he got a lucky strike in with his whip, he sucks in a breath. Peter remembers that day, too. Watching it unfold on live television in his third period class. Then, he wasn’t Spider-Man. He didn’t know Tony, or Pepper or Happy. He was an outsider watching something big; something terrifying. 

And yet, his fear then mirrored his fear from yesterday. It was wild to think of how devoted he was to Tony before he’d ever heard his name fall from the man's lips. 

He wonders what twelve years old would say to him, now, with the knowledge of this exact moment. 

Shaking off his thoughts, Peter repeats the motion a few more times, dousing the man’s hair with water; his hand cupped with his palm acting as a barrier to keep the water from pouring down Tony’s face. 

He slid his hand into the brown hair, smoothing it away from Tony’s forehead, keeping his mind carefully blank to avoid any travesties- then allows his fingers to flow with the water, ending at the nape of Tony’s neck where his fingers curl to just hold on for the briefest second.

Peter remembers being bathed as a child, by his mother. It happened once or twice, that he could remember, and both times it had felt.. Incredible, to be the sole beneficiary of another's attention. Even as young as he’d been, he vividly remembers the feel of her hands through his hair; how cared for he’d felt, safe. And he wants to offer that same feeling to Tony- that same comfort. 

Maybe someday the man will cherish Peter’s touch like Peter cherises his mothers. Maybe, even now, Tony will be able to feel how much Peter cherishes him through the simple touch. 

His eyes fill with tears at the flood of memories, emotions, and he wills Tony to feel him- to realize that Peter will alway be by his side, ready and willing to fight and care for him; to give him as many baths as he needs and to step in front of every line of fire he possibly could. Even if he was reduced to a lower standing, shoved to the back and cast into the shadows. He will be whoever Tony wanted him to be; whenever he wanted him. He willed Tony to hear his silent promise of protection, of an oath where he swore to never let the man be harmed again. 

Reaching for the bottle of shampoo, Peter pops the cap open and squirts a generous amount in his hands before lathering them together. Without permission or pause, he slowly begins to pull them through Tony’s hair, massaging the lather into his scalp from temples to the nape of his neck, then going back over it just for good measure. 

“Keep your eyes closed,” Peter warns quietly, breaking the silence yet not ruining the tranquility wrapped around them like a thin shield of protection and warmth. His knee’s crunch across the floor as he scoots closer to the tub, thighs now in the wet zone and dotted with water dripping from his poised elbows. Biting his already raw lip, he traps the smell of Tony in his lungs- files it away for a later date, a cherished memory. “I’m going to rinse your hair.”

Tony gives a nod of acknowledgement and leans forward again, though not nearly as much as before. Peter, again, lifts his guarding hand to shield Tony’s closed eyes from the shampoo and lets the water slowly pour over his mentor’s head. 

The feeling of intimacy returns, again, as Peter runs his fingers through Tony’s hair to brush away all the suds, and it returns with such vengeance Peter feels his chest swell. It was so easy to get lost to the touch- to the moment, to the idea of Tony being willing and pliant beneath his hands, ready for his touch, but the reality was Tony was far too injured to care for himself. Nothing more could be read between the lines- the evidence lying in the absence of crude jokes, or remarks on Peter’s reddening cheeks. 

_ So even the infamous Peter Parker blushes _

He sure as shit was now. 

He will be tomorrow, too. Forever ruined by this one experience.

Peter has a life to return to outside of these four walls. And so does Tony. They both have expectations to uphold; images to maintain and Tony would forget about this small act of kindness by tomorrow, if he didn’t lash out on Peter for it once he was better. Peter was a last-ditch resort, anyway. It wasn’t like he was intentionally sought out. He was a means to an end, and that was that. 

If he didn’t stop right now, here, with every inch of Tony clean- it would be all too easy to slip beyond duty and into something else, something Tony surely wouldn't want. Something Peter  _ shouldn't  _ want. 

Peter sits back on his heels and stays perfectly motionless, fighting the urge to rest his head on the side of the tub, unwilling to break the peaceful quiet or risk another presumptuous invasion of Tony’s personal space. There were boundaries to be withheld, after all. He knew Tony was uncomfortable enough just having Peter here, scrubbing him clean- a sort of dehumanizing action on Tony’s part, so he quietly holds his posture and tongue. 

He feels as drained as he did last night, if not more. His shoulders ache and his head is throbbing with all the carefully-concealed tension. Tony, on the other hand, looks relaxed which was rare and a decidedly good thing, especially given the extent of his injuries. 

God, Tony was a vision. His hairline was damp with perspiration, his eyelids softly closed, lips parted as he drew in long, slow breaths- one after another. Would Tony be embarrassed by the knowledge of Peter’s adoration? Others heard his comments directed at Peter- the harmless flirting he did with almost everyone, but what would they do if Peter did it back? Would it be accepted? Laughed off in such a manner? Or would he be banished like he fears? 

Probably banished, if he’s being honest.

Peter turns to face the sink and blinks, the rising panic brought on by guilt making his skin feel clammy. How could, for even one second, he enjoy any of that? A situation that was clearly a new low for Tony?

No. He hadn’t enjoyed the cause of Tony’s injuries, or the man's pain and distress. He just enjoyed being so close to the man, with no restraints or boundaries or prying gazes. He’s never touched Tony so freely, so welcomingly, and the man has never been so open to Peter’s touch. Maybe he would have been, before the accident. Before his memory of Peter was tarnished with the knowledge of what he’d done- with guilt. 

At the sound of sloshing water, Peter jerks his gaze away from the sink and turns to look at Tony just as the man was wrapping a towel around his waist- feet leaving wet imprints on the towel just inches from Peter’s knees. From this angle, it was easy to get the wrong impression; to read too much into why Peter was on his knees with a naked Tony just inches in front of him, so he quickly scrambles to his feet. 

As if Peter would ever be the object of Tony’s pleasure. 

“There, done. I’ll let you… er… finish up… here.” Peter hands him a fresh pair of boxers and sweatpants Pepper had prepared him with. “I’ll let Dr. Cho help you with the binding.”

Then, with embarrassment flaring hot on his cheeks, Peter spins around and leaves before Tony can say anything further. He runs past Pepper and Dr. Cho, both of which are sitting on the couch, talking casually like two friends who are catching up. He is hot with humiliation- needs to escape and hide, to get out of his clothes he just now realized are soaking wet. 

Taking the elevator to his floor, Peter runs to his room and barely manages to keep himself from bursting into tears the second his bedroom door closes. He doesn’t know if it was out of humiliation, relief, guilt or a combination of all three; a lethal concoction that forces his heart to beat faster and his breathing to grow scarce. He just bathed Tony Stark and managed to not make a complete fool of himself, for the most part.

His hands still sting with the fresh memory of Tony’s skin gliding beneath his palms, and Peter lets out an alarmed cry as he replays the images of unbinding the man’s chest. Tony looked so broken- so human.  _ So not  _ the larger than life superhero everyone painted him out to be. Peter was still incredibly awe-struck by the man, but that sight… that  _ memory.  _ It just closed one of the largest gaps inside his adolescent mind- completely  _ demolished  _ any and all ideas he may have held of Tony Stark, and it made him come face to face with the most obvious of them all. 

Tony Stark wasn’t invincible. Beneath the suit, there was a man. 

A man who Peter Parker was undeniably attracted to. He couldn’t deny the attraction now- no fucking way. Not with Tony's scent still so vivid in his mind, with his hands still weighted impressions cupped in Peter’s palm. And this? This little fucking mishap- this was probably going to be the very thing that  _ kills  _ Peter. Tony couldn’t want him- it wasn’t plausible.

Yet, like his childhood self, he was placing all of his belief into Tony and feeding his trust to a man who was so easily broken it was terrifying. 

The decision was cemented now, however. Peter would never let Tony get hurt again, even if that meant that Peter has to transfer facilities. Whatever it takes to keep Tony safe.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 6: Everything in Tony’s life is dispensable

Peter pulls the covers to his chin and squeezes his eyes closed, though sleep stubbornly refuses to come. He lays, for a while, listening to the sounds of the night dying away all around him; the stirring bird in the nest just outside his window, preparing to take flight in search of food for her young, the shifting of Nat- rooms away, her slow, even breaths timed with the ticking clock on the wall- counting in five second intervals between each inhalation. Another heartbeat was synced with hers; their breathing identical in patterns yet the other was deeper: heavier with a smidge more noise behind each exhale- yet not quite snoring. It was Bruce, he knew it was, the answer so obvious yet it still seemed strange to pair the two together despite their obvious compatibility and sexual tension that was, for so many years, ignored. Blatantly and ignorantly. 

It makes him long for something he’s never had; something that can never be his. 

When he’s nearly managed to doze off, thoughts of Tony absent and intentionally buried, he feels the ghost of fingers slotting between his; the faintest weight of an arm around his shoulder, their bodies aligned, toes to chests, lips not even an inch away. He jostles awake, startled by how real it felt- the touch of Tony, the smell of him: by the guilt of how much he still craves it.

There was no chance of sleep after that, attempting it was futile and stupid. 

He sits on the ledge of the balcony outside of the common living room for a short while, mind so incredibly convinced he is owed time to mourn the loss of a tragedy not yet his reality. A sorrow not yet his to claim, but he can feel it, in his bones. A shifting in the air; a slowly accelerating lust that was overpowered by guilt and shame. Emotions and feelings that were guaranteed to be met with disgust and anger. 

And, despite his best effort, he plays the bath over and over in his mind, what he should have said or done- touched while granted the opportunity, admitted when in the face of a man not so untouchable, so human-like. He thinks about what he should have reveled in. All he relinquished by reaching for that first feel. 

Tony would never forgive him- never forgive Peter for agreeing to bath the man when he clearly wasn’t in his right mind. Lucid enough to consent to such touches- to Peter’s atrocious ministrations. 

He’s dreading the moment Tony awakens.

When dawn rose, Peter slips from his perch and retreats to his room, where he dresses in appropriate clothing to wear beneath his suit. Then he throws himself off the roof of Stark-Tower with his spidey-suit in place but his mask peeled back. Intent on gaining some peace-of-mind swinging through his familiar City. 

The frigid, morning air stings his eyes with every swing forward, where gravity pulls his body down but the air keeps him weightless- but he accepts it, allowing it to serve as his penance. 

~~~

The implication of Pepper’s smirk makes Peter think all kinds of inappropriate things; things that would surely sour and probably scandalize even the world-renowned playboy, Tony Stark. 

His cheeks puff with effort to control his breathing- sweat absent but his body has this nice, sore tenderness to it that each one of his steps forward echo throughout each muscle and he relishes at how they quiver. He probably pushed himself a bit too far today- miles of uncharted territory now beneath his protection with hundreds of photos of him already surfacing on the web. 

It’s apparently been too long since he’s done a casual patrol around any part of New York- if the mass reaction was surprise and shock. 

It has been a relatively quiet morning regardless, and despite a convenience store burglary he managed to stop before any casualties happened- nothing has happened. 

Nothing until he fell with a thud on the balcony rail, dangling precariously there with his feet barely hooked on the metal still dewy from morning precipitation, seeking an unstable purchase as he removes his mask he was forced to don after his morning streak brought a flux of ametur photographers Peter may or may not have posed for. 

But then, before he’s even granted the opportunity to catch his breath and remember what the wind feels like when it’s not whipping across his skin like a thousand tiny daggers, a shadow appears before him; peering at him through the clear glass windows.

Pepper looks at him expectantly; suggestively, like she’s privy to his thoughts- to the events that unfolded behind the bathroom door just last night, and has an intimate understanding of his personal turmoil. Peter stills there, perched like a pigeon on a ledge; the entire world beneath his arched feet- debating the likelihood of a clean escape without her chasing after him or, worse- sending someone  _ qualified.  _

It was unlikely she would do so, but Peter doubts he would be spared the earful once he returns. 

The balcony doors open, and her suggestive smirk is even louder out here; with the sun illuminating it. Peter smiles- hopes it’s a smile not taken hostage by a grimace. “Good morning, Miss Potts.” Personal feelings don’t diminish his manners, and despite wanting to escape as quickly as possibly Peter is also aware he must maintain a level of professionalism with everyone here if he wishes to stay. 

“Good morning, Peter,” she doesn’t even allow him to fully drop from his position on the railing before she’s stepping closer to him- nearly crowding his space despite her height disadvantage. Without her high-heels, she was noticeably shorter and Peter has to tuck his chin against his chest just to look at her. 

“Is there something I can help you with, Miss Potts?”

She hums. “Actually, Peter, there is. Tony-” Peter feels proud of himself for not wincing, even with pain lacerating his chest, “would like to see you. He insisted you came up last night but- well, I didn’t think you were up for it.”

Peter’s heart stalls in his chest. Unnerved from her accurate observation- and wondering if he was as obvious to everyone else, he unfurls fully. “I was tired.”

“As I told him last night.”

“Why does he want to see me today?”

She sighs and steps aside when he moves to push past her. “I think he feels guilty.”

He freezes.  _ Tony- guilty? Of what?  _

After a moment's pause, giving Peter the opportunity to digest the fact that Pepper truly believes Tony has  _ anything  _ to feel guilty over, he turns to face her just as he reaches the doors. “He has nothing to feel guilty for.”

_ Tony should never feel guilty.  _

It was Peter who-  _ he  _ fucked up.  _ He  _ was in the wrong. Not Tony.  _ Never  _ Tony. 

She smiles, but her eyes look sad and conflicted. “Not how he sees it, Pete.” she laughs and hooks her arms over the railing, back towards the city glimmering in the afternoon, and leans back against it. “I mean, you ran out of there the moment Tony was clean-  _ anybody  _ would take that as the impression of you being uncomfortable.”

Peter swallows thickly and shakes his head because, no- that wasn’t, that wasn’t right. “I-I wasn’t,” he admits, maybe a little too honestly for his own good. “I-”--- _ I was hot and bothered for a man so incredibly hurt. I couldn’t look past my own hormones for a goddamn minute to take care of someone who so desperately needs it-  _ how did he word  _ that  _ without seeming as desperate as he truly is? Without presenting himself as a monster. “I was tired and wet. I figured the last thing Tony wanted was his wet  _ protege  _ hovering while he attempted to get dressed. I did what was asked of me.”

“You did,” Pepper assures him with a nod, “I was in no way implying you didn’t- but  _ Tony  _ feels an apology is owed to you.”

Strangled by his own heart, Peter sways to the side and catches himself with his hand on the door knob. “ _ Why?” _

“Why does Tony think the way that he thinks- or do half of the shit that he does?” she shakes her head hopelessly- as hopeless as Peter feels. “I don’t know, but he can be pretty persistent.”

The thought of seeing Tony feels  _ suffocating.  _ He can’t face him, not yet. Possibly not ever. 

How can he make her understand without giving him away completely? “I can’t,” he whispers, the simple admittance shredding through his throat. He feels raw and bare now, standing before her. “I-you have to understand. I thought he would  _ hate  _ me the second he became lucid. I-I  _ touched  _ him while he was-while-” he couldn’t  _ say  _ it. 

In a startling move, Pepper’s mouth forms an undignified o, and what Peter fails to say is clearly working itself out in her mind. She  _ knows.  _ “I understand, Peter,” her voice is so incredibly soft Peter thinks that maybe she  _ does  _ understand. It’s not pity in her eyes- just kindness and compassion. “I can tell him you’re out on patrol, if you’d like? But that will only delay what is inevitably to come. Tony doesn’t hate you, if that’s any consolation. I don’t think he ever can, honestly. You’re the one consistent thing he’s ever stuck with,”

“What does that mean?”

Pepper rustles back a step or two to better prop herself against the railing; the dead leaves beneath her feet sodden with morning dew but still holding a sliver of crunch. The distance is obvious; a seeking of space to assert a level of fantasy between them to keep the moment  _ less  _ heavy. A conversation full of admittances left the air between them palpable and tense, and Pepper was attempting to find solace in a place not so tainted by Peter. 

Again, she looks sad. “It means that everything in Tony’s life is dispensable. Cars, phones- suits,  _ people.”  _ She laughs at the implication, but the truth lies in Tony’s past. He went through friends and lovers quicker than an alcoholic could go through a twelve pack. And somewhere on that long list of temporary items; people, sat Pepper. “His life is inconsistent and hectic- yet you somehow fit in there, a perfect little puzzle piece who understands the most complicated parts of him, and he refuses to let you go. Something as simple as a  _ bath,  _ which he was fully conscious and willing for, will not waver his level of admiration for you.”

It leaves Peter breathless- the silly, impossible idea of being something  _ valuable  _ to Tony  _ freaking  _ Stark. But it erases the pain- the worries. The notion of being a dispensable asset in Tony’s arsenal of employees- never to leave an impression or be remembered. 

And, for a moment, he believes it. Pepper knows Tony best after all, doesn’t she?

“I’ll meet him,” Peter decides quickly, before losing his nerve. “Lead the way.”

~~~

His armor gleams- imposing and dramatic, in the soft, yellow hue of Tony’s table lamp that’s just barely snaking around the corner of his bedroom. He debated taking it off on the way up here, but booty shorts and a tank top was hardly appropriate attire to be seeing Tony in at the moment so he toughened it out. Not that the suit was uncomfortable, anyway. 

The room is silent, save for the silent humming of Friday around him; a near-tangible feeling of a woman’s presence, something he can nearly reach out and touch- caress in a friendly manner. She buzzes around him like a constant life-force, taking and giving as she sucks electricity from the core of the building just to evenly disperse it to everything electronic within her touch. 

From his watch, curled dauntingly around his thin wrist, Peter feels a warmth, and with it comes an awareness. Friday was greeting him without disturbing Tony- almost as if she  _ knows  _ Peter can feel her. He smiles, hoping she can see it, and walks more fully into the room. 

The air is thick and heavy; stagnant enough to choke on and he wonders how much of that is a perceivable feeling and not something borne from his anxiousness. There are no monitors, or beeping machines or even the low sound of a movie playing for background noise. It was quiet; almost as if deafness has fallen upon him now that he’s  _ this  _ close to Tony when just last night he was accepting the man’s hatred. 

But then he hears it- the solid, firm thump of a strong heartbeat and his body melts without his consent. “Peter?” Tony calls out, and his voice is impossibly low and raspy, obviously misused with his days rest, but it pulls every muscle in Peter’s body taut while simultaneously melting him at his core. 

Rounding the last corner before reaching the man’s sight, Peter inhales shakily and finally breaches the world thriving beneath Tony’s gaze, abandoning the comfort of invisibility. “I’m here, Mr. Stark.” 

It’s amazing how different he feels now than he had last night. Yesterday he felt responsible for Tony’s comfort; invincible while facing the man's mortality, but now he’s returned to his humbled state. Nothing more than a small little boy when overshadowed by Tony’s large, formidable presence. Even injured he commands a room, and it knocks Peter breathless. 

The smile he gets in return is wide and  _ genuine,  _ reaching Tony’s eyes despite exhaustion pulling at the corner of his lips and tugging at his drooping face. “I thought you’d run away for good.”

Relief swamps Peter’s body- erasing the ever-present nerves, the worry that Tony would react poorly once he saw him.  _ There  _ was that light teasing Peter missed last night. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, I’m afraid.”

He watches Tony for a second; tracing the juncture of his shoulders down the visible span of his muscular arms, remembering with vivid quality how they feel beneath his fingers. When his eyes flick up to Tony’s face, he finds he’s being watched with the same quiet appreciation. 

His hands curl into fists. 

“Go on patrol?” Tony asks after a few seconds pass in silence. He gestures at Peter’s suit, still adhered to his body like a second skin. 

All Peter can do is nod, nerves manifesting in his stomach as knots that squeeze every time he remembers what he’s done- what  _ Tony  _ knows he's done. The good, the bad- the more, the cravings. It’s all too much, yet grossly too little. “I needed to clear my head.”

It’s not a lie, but the look Tony gives him let’s Peter know that Tony knows, too. He needed an escape. The tower no longer felt like a safe-haven. And it was  _ crushing  _ him. 

He opens his mouth to speak- wanting more than anything to show Tony that he’s fine, they’re fine- the bath was  _ perfectly  _ fine. The attention given to Tony’s body last night was out of pure worry and assessment and Peter, Peter is fine. He’ll be fine,  _ perfect. _

_ You have nothing to be guilty over.  _ He wants to say, but he stays blissfully silent. 

Tony smiles faintly and turns his attention down to the tablet in his hand, the screen long since blackened from it sitting idle but the dim table lamp offers Peter the reflection of Tony’s soft, somber face on the screen. Even dejected, he’s still beautiful and it alarms Peter the quickly developing adjectives he’s finding to perfectly fit Tony; how easily his mindset has changed from a single event.

Now isn’t a time to be naive, however. Tony called him here for a reason; an apology, according to Pepper- but the set of his shoulders was translating something entirely different and Peter knows not to get hopeful. 

He exhales harshly. “Did you need to talk to me about something,  _ sir?” _

It’s hard to equate his mannerisms of this Tony to the man he’d been last year, before the incident- before he was aware how Peter’s hand trembles when he’s in deep concentration and his tongue peeks from between his lips. 

In a terribly selfish moment, he considers the possibility of time-travel. Would he do it?  _ Knowing  _ he risks bringing Thanos back,  _ just  _ for the possibility of bringing back that Tony? 

Would he truly rewrite history?

When Tony looks up at him, he looks upset- it’s subtle, and he’s definitely not angry but his jaw is tight and his lips are pressed in a hard line. It’s a look Peter knows all too well- a look that requires him to reflect back on his previous assessment and realize that he was  _ wrong.  _ Tony’s changed, as they all have, but there was still large quantities of the man hidden beneath all the bullshit. All the deflective, flirtatious, snarky remarks. 

It’s a look that rings Pepper’s earlier observation true;  _ I think he feels guilty.  _

It’s true. Tony certainly looks guilty. And, consequently, so does Peter. Both for the same reason, but wrong ideas. 

“Do you ever have this grand idea, Peter?” he muses, clearly lost in his thoughts as he gazes back down at now his folded hands. “Of who you are- what you want to be and do? Because I did-  _ do.  _ I’ve always strived to follow my moral compass and allow it to guide my ways. After the kidnapping, of course.” he snorts. “Before that, I was fucked up. Probably wouldn’t give to fucks but-” he inhales deeply and shakes his head. “I care, now. But it seems that recently i've- it’s, I’m all sorts of fucked up.”

His smile was intended to be playful, but it was chastising and Peter’s ears felt  _ hot.  _ He must be hearing him wrong because surely Tony wasn’t implying that he has  _ obvious  _ reasons to feel guilty. Reasons that question his- his morals?

Peter licks his lips. “I do,” he whispers, and it seems Tony forgot his presence because he startles a little. “I’ve- It’s why I’m him, why I’m spiderman.”

Transfixed on something below Peter’s eyes, near his chin, Tony nods. “That’s good,” he breathes. “That’s really good. Doing something productive and worth a damn. When I was your age I was- well, probably best we don’t talk about what I was doing when I was your age.”

“Were you more risky than I was, sir?”

“Oh, plenty.” Tony scoffs. “There’s a reason I was banned from ever returning to MIT after I graduated.” he shifts back against his pillows propped against his headboard. “Of course, they graciously revoked that  _ harsh  _ punishment when I funded their entire Physics program.”

Drunk on the semi-casual yet bold detour of their conversation, Peter bites his lip. “Was that before or after you saved their school from being demolished by the hulk during one of his rampages?” Dr. Banner had a bad reaction to a chemical explosion during a brief lecture and Hulk was unintentionally let loose. Tony, obviously, had been one of the people on scene to tame the wild, terrified monster. 

“After, surprisingly,” 

As Tony stares, absorbed in his own mind- the trap of his thoughts, Peter can’t help but think back on Natasha’s words in the gym the other day;  _ Flirting hardly classifies as anything when it concerns you, Tony. _

Is that what they’ve been doing this whole time? Flirting? 

Surely not. 

“Just because I was more risky, Peter, in no way means I was more  _ brave.  _ Hell, even now i'm a coward when in competition with you.”

The indirect compliment bathes Peter in a warm light. 

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that even if it isn’t true.” 

A smile curves the corner of his lips. “It’s more than true. Who do you know that’s saved the world by the time they’re  _ eighteen?  _ Not very many, I’ll tell you that.” 

“So I’ve been told,” realizing now how incredibly off track they’ve truly strayed, Peter moves from his precious tense-pose before the door and sits in the black arm chair on the side of Tony’s bed- the side he’s not sitting on, thankfully. It easily swallows his small body, and despite his gangly limbs resisting the movement he bends his legs beneath his body and pretends like the metal of his suit doesn’t bite at the curve of his ankles at this angle. 

He figures he might as well get comfortable while he’s here, and Tony visibly relaxes watching Peter sit down. Like he was holding his breath the entire duration of their conversation and was only now granting himself the luxury of  _ breathing.  _

A heartbeat passes in silence, rapidly followed by another. “Why did you request my presence, Mr. Stark?” Saying it like that implies the notion of Peter being something easily  _ requested.  _ It implies Peter is something worth Tony’s time and attention; an object of his desire. 

“You left before I could thank you yesterday,” he looks conflicted; disgusted yet earnest. “I- not a lot of people would do that for some- for me. I know it made you uncomfortable but-“

“It didn’t,” Peter rushes to say, his earlier refusal to interject his opinion with Pepper now absent and instead fueled by his need to assure Tony that  _ no-  _ he wasn’t uncomfortable. Just incredibly embarrassed. He shakes his head again, repeating this time though with a little more conviction- “I wasn’t uncomfortable.” 

Tony stills for a moment. It’s almost as if he himself doesn’t quite understand the depth behind Peter’s admission but he can  _ sense _ the underlying truth hovering just out of reach. 

_ I wasn’t uncomfortable, I was tired and wet.  _

Pepper had sensed it, too. Perhaps Peter just needs to keep his mouth shut. 

Tony clears his throat. “Yes. Well. Thank you. I- it means a lot.” 

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Of course that’s all Tony wanted- was to thank him. He was just being nice to help curve the awkwardness away from an incredibly awkward situation on both their parts. 

Peter half-nods, half-shrugs, wondering exactly why that required his  _ actual _ presence and why it couldn’t have just been said over the phone or at a later time. 

_ I don’t know, but he can be pretty persistent. _

“How do you feel today?” 

Tony looks down at his bandage chest now hidden beneath a shirt and blanket, yet neither erase the fact that Peter knows what it looks like. The lighting in the room casts the shadow of his eyelashes across his cheekbones; hollowed by the darkness, yet defined as he clenches his jaw. 

“Fine. Little sore, but I’ve been through worse.” He shrugs. Like it’s an everyday thing. Like he’s been hurt  _ so _ much it’s just an inconvenience now rather than something that needs to be properly reflected on. He almost  _ died,  _ and yet he doesn’t seem fazed. 

Perhaps if he saw himself through Peter’s eyes that night? When the face-plate first lifted. 

He hugs himself to conceal the small shiver even though he’s not cold, images of Tony’s face popping to mind. Of the breath Peter still has curled in his palm for a safe day. 

“You cold?” Tony asks almost immediately, even though the possibility of that is extremely low- if not entirely impossible, given Peter’s still in-tact suit. He leans forward, almost as if to pull Peter into his side- his warmth. 

But instead, he reaches for the blanket at the end of the bed and Peter stops him before he can hurt himself. “No,” he says, leaning forward to place a cautious hand on Tony’s wrist and only freezing when he realizes what he’s done. 

He’s partially grateful his gloves remain in place and don’t listen to the silent demand of his body and peel back so he can  _ feel _ what’s already familiar. Memorized. 

“I’m not cold.” 

Peter let’s go immediately after and Tony’s arm jerks towards him, like it was chasing Peter’s touch but then it falls, abandoned and discouraged, palm up on the bed. 

He just can’t understand how Tony is so casual about his near-death. It was going to fuck Peter up for months to come and yet- “I’m really fine, Peter. I promise.” 

Of  _ course  _ Tony can sense what’s wrong. 

Sniffling, Peter digs his chin into his chest and he feels no different now sitting with Tony than he did sitting across from May after Ben died. Small and insignificant. “You didn’t see yourself. I-I was pretty convinced you were dead, Mr. Stark.”

The palm on the bed raises, in search of something, then curls around thin air and Tony drags the back of his knuckles across his bottom lip in a distracted motion. “I was pretty sure I was dead, too. It’s not every day a silly alien toy can do  _ that _ much damage through my suit. It took me off-line entirely and the suit-“ 

_ They had to cut it off of him.  _ Yeah, Peter knows. 

“But I’m alive,” Tony says weakly, that hardly an argument or consolation given his physical appearance now; the damage that very well could have been irreversible. That severed his life-line far too early, like the nightmares that haunt Peter of a life that could have been. 

And yet, it does exactly what Tony intends. Peter smiles small, reluctant. “You’re alive.” 

They look at each other. Peter waits for Tony to ask for details on what he looked like when Peter and Steve drug him back to the jet, or why Peter really ran out of the bathroom yesterday. He waits for the impossible questions that have no real answers- or rather answers he doesn’t want to face, yet they never come. Tony just… doesn’t do anything. 

Nothing more is left to be said. 

Peter shifts in his seat and swallows. “I should get going. You need your rest.” 

“Okay. “ Tony nods to himself. “Thank you for coming up, Pete, and for-“ he makes a vague gesture over his body that warms Peter’s cheeks. A reaction hidden as he jumps up from his seat, no longer at eye level with Tony. No longer within reach. 

“No problem, Mr. Stark.” 

He leaves before more can be said. Only now realizing as he jams his thumb into the button on the elevator that he was leaving with far more questions than he came up here with. 

The first being; 

_ Does Tony hate him?  _


End file.
